from Book I, Part 1, Mystery Tramp Eclogues
The Wall
We waded
back along the creek,
lugging the
creek stones one by one, the rig
sloped
axle-deep in water, the weight
of each
load seizing on the springs.
Across the
spill of shallows, we looked
at what
we’d done, and said, Enough for now.
In the
field, we struck the seams, grading
each for
size, edges sounder
where the
hammer bit the stone,
the shale
of shells knocked loose to firmer stuff.
Soil dug
back, we took a level, squared
the cut, a
chop of spade ramping it true.
Nothing of a slurry mortar,
the pudding mix a trowel takes − instead, nooked
tightly
into shunted stacks,
from the
chinks flush-joints appeared.
A sky of
high sun baked the length, by then
a shout
from end to end, and still it went.
We fetched
the lost meadows, their stands of birch
and willow,
the hill routes.
We hauled
them whole, their birds, and the grasses
bright-backed
with gentians, set them round with stone
coursing
sure for boundary, a fix of stars,
the years.
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