It begins well. In canvas den
the dykers bivouac beside the ridge,
and hands at a touch set out to put
a crag of slate to rest,
to build a wall before the frost.
Through scattered stone,
through bracken and scree,
quiet minds begin to pick,
sorting the rock,
eyeing the slope;
lodging a first stone,
where a wall will stand.
It falls to place, the wall,
slowly, advancing on beck
and hump,
draining heights
of tumbled scree,
a stone snake,
a line across the fell
till hard against a barren slope
it piles
and sets to climb a wet hillside.
At this the dykers seem to slow,
through mist they move
and sheets of rain,
as lost, momentum gone.
and
a cleft is filled in stone by stone.
Ragged weeks ensue and still
they build.
In a dull flare
autumn fades,
and November’s mists,
till a first trace of frost,
the white edge of winter,
shines along the ridge and only then
the mountain slope is crossed.
Three months gone
from the first stone
to a wall complete,
scarcely half a mile, little more,
yet built to last . . .
past my day, and yours.
It seemed the only way
to build a wall.
