Round the corner, down the old lane
A little, forgotten man sits whittling
His children have gone
And their hearts and souls with them
Perhaps it would not have been so
Had he bought them boots and mittens
On that barren,icy morning to school
And not let the Snow Queen tease their toes, and wrap them within her grasp
And let her frostbite their hearts
Had he craddled them until with warmth, a cup of hot soup, a pair of cosy gloves
Had he...

Left alone he sits carving a piece of wood
And besides him lays three wooden dolls
Of paint caressed faces
With painted eyes
Watching as petals and petals
Of wood shavings
Flutter to the floor
And the little, forgotten man sits whittling
A face
A face of wood
With a wooden heart
And a wooden soul
That never longs to leave
And fly away