Brickfield Lane

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For Dodie

William Murphy stooped and turned the handle ‘round a last time
stepped through the door within the door
his builder’s yard his lifeline
where planks and rusting scaffolds lay
their own hollow melodies when walked upon
here neatly strewn by the inner sanctum

Soft cardboard boxes grey were filled with mixed remainders
screws washers pins nails nuts clips and rings
the droppings of a hundred years
roof-ladders sieves twine putty primer brushes
rusting hinges and enamel bolts
paint cans oil cans black rusting billycans
brass fittings hacksaw blades
pliers monkey-wrenches copper pipe
half-spools of wire a kettle and a sea of shavings
a workbench with a bandsaw new
the grit from life’s engravings

Wheelbarrows caked with concrete scabs
hammers picks shovels sticks chisels drill-bits buckets
trowels plumlines flux and glue
the ants upon the window sill
and all of this for you

The makings of an ark to float
his loved-ones over oceans
and felt-tacks for the roofing felt
to roof his life’s devotions