The Wheelwright. For David
The wheelwright worked, as carefully,
yet so fast, as a wheel spins.
One day, someone said to him,
the centre of the wheel never moves.
Infuriated, the wheelwright worked night and day
neglecting his other work,
to prove this was not true;
he invented a wheel which was all rim;
but it still needed a hub, an axle;
but he had invented the flywheel;
his business flourished despite him.
He invented a wheel with a hollow at its centre;
but had to devise a radiating hub;
yet he had invented machinery;
his business thrived.
After many years, he sank back,
beaten by philosophy; reduced to stillness.
Around him, a huge business enterprise;
he, the hub, the axle,
the still centre.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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