Sue Dymoke
Craftsmen
Arms filled with plywood kisses
they came to make a trellis.
They speak little.
Dad marks places with his stubbed pencil;
six-by-two uprights growing to a level.
Inside the house
he sits before his notebook.
Black clicks white
noisy silences waiting for words.
Blonde shavings smile on my brothers jumper.
Sawn blocks topple
dropping hot dust.
Iron taps metal.
The fence is built.
In an upstairs room
a craftsman raids his toolbox
for endings.
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Page(s) 19
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