Long ago a tree grew strong, tall and straight.
Its hard wood was nourished by the land,
African land, Sukumaland, Tanzania.
Tanzania, my childhood home.
The tree was felled.
A slice of the trunk was cut, carefully,
Ready for a skilled and practised Msukuma
To carve, from the single piece of wood,
A low round seat, suitable for a chief
To be seated, just a handsbreadth higher than his people.
The wooden stool was presented to my Dad.
It was low seat where he used to rest,
Relax, be comfortable, at ease,
In our new home in Europe,
Sevenoaks, Kent, England.
England, my teenage home.
Now the wooden stool is in my living room
Here in Edinburgh, Scotland.
I love the gold and black age-rings
On its polished surface.
They are like the wrinkles on my aging face,
Which is smiling, as I remember my Dad.