APPRENTICESHIP

We worked at ‘heads’ until our own spun, and thought it the end of the world

if we took a corner off, or ‘poxed’ a stone altogether.

Worked out in all weathers, ‘head’ after ’head’ after ’head’; and always ‘himself’

standing glowering  -  a hard man, turning the air blue with his cursing

if his billy-can wasn’t boiling on time, or mocking the blood dripping from a mangled hand.

Standing, always standing with his straight-edge, all eyes for hollow or chipped arras;

grumbling back out under his armpit  -  ‘do it again’, ‘do it again’ ,

until once he would say (reluctantly) ‘ it’ll do’  -  just that  -  ‘it’ll do’

and the air gave out its bells with a sigh.

Since then  it’s been a lifetime of shaping stone: dragging from prehistoric clay:  angels’ wings; senators’ beards; huge breasted women; tracery as delicate as lace;

fine work, work to be proud of;

and he’s dead long since,

who shaped us

old mason

coughing, coughing  -

the young ones eye his tools

                                                         Notes:     ‘heads’:  dressed end of a stone

                                                                                 

                                                                           Poxed:   ruined