Introducing The Mouseman (Robert Thompson, Wood Carver) Poem by Sally Evans

The Mouseman walks to the church
at the village axis, its pool
of garden, walled round dead,
bears rose and hawthorn, tended
by elderly tread,
sundial in south wall.

The Mouseman has been called
to make an interior room
in decorated oak,
ecclesiastical,
etched with traceries.
York Minster fuels his work.

The Mouseman measures nches,
stops here and there in pews,
moves round the nave,
listens for music
to echo patterns he'll brad,
his mouse in the wainscot.

Those who watch him
fall silent, aware
he hears and sees
more than they know
in the building
of their ancestors.

Away go plush curtains,
too full of dust.
the light oak screen,
its arches delicate and strong,
is set in place in sections,
then dedicated.

Children in dusty pews
search for the wooden mouse,
low in a panel.
Only one.
An ancient window
blinks in surprise at them.

The Mouseman notices.
He misses nothing,
building or villagers.
They're not his first
recipients of art.
Bishops and prelates

don't worry Robert, he's already
a myth, the Mouseman,
the equal of all
in his region.
He crosses Tees - the River -
back into Yorkshire.