Lathe

Upon the workshop bench it stands,
A steady lathe of cast‑iron frame,
Its spindle humming, turning sand,
Shaping wood and metal’s claim.

The chuck grips fast, the toolpost slides,
A graceful dance of edge and grain,
Shavings curl like ribbons wide,
In rhythmic, whispered, steady refrain.

From rough‑hewn blank to polished form,
Each revolution tells a tale—
A craftsman’s patience, warm and norm,
Where imagination turns to sail.

So here’s to lathe, the silent guide,
That shapes our dreams with patient art,
In Britain’s sheds, with pride and pride,
It carves the future, beat by beat.