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for Mick Bailey

He used the steel edge of the trowel to slice through the wet dollop

He slopped a cold grey pudding onto the top of the growing façade

The glazed bricks did what they were told climbing in stepped straight lines

Piling up higher and higher as he settled another in with his left hand

He scooped and scraped with the pointed end of the trowel

Backtracking and licking the sloppy joints with uniform firmness

He tapped the latest recruit with the heel of the handle

Until his trained eye was completely satisfied

The evening sun was running across the fields in its yellow silks

Steeple-chasing over the hamlets and the gilded hedges

The fields were neatly sewn together and grouted with blackthorn

The corrugated barns hot in a smoky maroon glow

He scraped another helping of sandy sludge onto the upturned blade

And as he slid the cake-mix onto the second last line of the day’s bricks

He thought of the castles he had built down by a sea shore long ago

Their sandy turrets in the evening slipping down into the relentless tide