Each pair of lines in "Testament" names a material and then finds something hidden inside it. Wool holds down, the soft layer close to the body. Timber holds time, perhaps in the rings of a tree or in the years a beam has stood. The last pair turns to language: a will holds a testament, the written wish a person leaves behind.
The poem moves from the physical to the abstract. It begins with things you can touch and ends with a document about death and inheritance. That progression suggests that what we leave behind is never only an object. It carries softness, age, and the mark of a life. The word "testament" also means evidence or proof, so the title hints that these things bear witness.
The speaker doesn't announce a feeling. The tone is quiet and reflective, almost like a whispered list. The short lines and plain words leave a lot of space, and the mood is gentle, thoughtful, and a little solemn, as if you're being asked to slow down and notice.