I collect nuts and bolts by the roadside,
it’s an odd assortment of random finds.
Some are obvious and easily spied:
they are those that shine before the rust binds
itself to their surface. New to the road
they have not nestled into hidden nooks,
nor taken the hit of a heavy load,
they retain the shape of their fresh made looks;
in every sense new to my collection.
As alluvial pickings they hold
the shimmer and shine of self-selection;
unweathered, yet to have their history told.
. So, what of this collection can be said?
. Nothing more true… than its a common thread.

Tim Grace, 29 November 2011

To the reader: Late 2011, I was seeking more from work than work could offer. Tedium was broken with a break for lunch that included a walk around the neighbouring streets. Always the tinkerer, I have an eye for nuts and bolts and this led to a surprisingly large, and quickly accrued, collection of threaded metal. An odd amusement but easily construed as metaphor: the world unwinds as road spill.

To the poet: Hardly a great poem, but then again, it actually describes a very real and raw time in my working career; when the most stimulating part of the day was a lunchtime walk. Each piece of road-spill is a poem in itself. The shiny collectables are obvious and attractive, but as in this poem it’s through them we describe the true character of a common thread; toughened steel.

common threads