What a perverse thrill Holding an artefact of highest technology Elegant, machined within a hair of perfection Fragile in its way, destroyed by the slightest shock Taking it in hand Not gingerly or tenderly But with a hand remembering those first rocks Raised in hairy fists That, were one to ponder, lead to this artefact With detours on the way The joy is strange to bring it down so quickly To know that first blow will forever change it Transform it from silicon wonder to simple stone Used to pound home recalcitrant bolts When a hammer can't be found
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This work is Copyright (c) Mike Fletcher 2005