I posted this earlier without the last 9 lines and new title. Comments that it seemed like part of something larger and not really "about anything" prompted the changes. This may now be a bit more resolved.
Dogged into place while still green
rough sawn and sharp scent heavy
now greyed and smoothed with years of tread
nail heads countersunk but unputtied
proud still where the wardrobe hid them.
Our makeshift tongue-in-groove
from strips of ply inserted in saw cuts
squinting in places with
pinpoints of light from the floor below.
In the mild longitudinal wave of grain
under foot, a hint of surfaces beyond the walls.
‘Young swamp gum dries flatter,’
said the miller, thick armed sawyer
from the road below the house
when he landed long blond boards
from the bed of his wheezing truck.
And they did shrink true,
less rippled than post and beam
of Tasmanian oak,
cell structure caving less
as they slowly hardened
beyond the driving of nails.
In the intervening years I learn
flourishes far from swamps,
scraping ninety metre skies.
Mornings, freshly from my bed
I press Pilates postured head
against the old growth hardwood king.
And on that regal timber spread,
tread the routine of my day.