A simple promise

Under the sweltering sun,
An old man toiled away
At a mighty oak trunk
That was years old and decayed.
After so many a moon,
He still laboured without
All for one single boon
Made to his love long before now—
Long before her worsened state,
Long before her passing:
I shall make, one of these days,
A garden bench for your reading.

Even when she was no longer,
The old man continued his quest.
When asked for what purpose it served
To still grind away – he said:
For while I failed her then,
I intend not to fail again.
And so his senile frame he lumbered
On every wintry morning,
Hauled up and down his cleaver
To keep these words he'd given:
I shall make, one of these days,
A garden bench for your reading.