Building The Wall

The first brick was when
you looked at me like that.
There wasn't any ceremony:
I just scuffed a spot in
the dirt with my toe
and dropped it firmly
onto the wet loam.

We weren't in any rush:
we trudged back for a cup
of tea next, not needing
spoken words for telegrams were
being sent through the silence:
thousands of yards of high-strung
wire, humming with import.

Then we mixed the mortar:
chopping and piling the sand
and cement with the shovel
into those miniature volcanoes,
pouring in half a bucket of
water at a time, mixing it back
in and piling the mound again.

We shared the work evenly:
one spreading the mortar
while the other fetched a
new brick, slapping it down
and swapping, scraping off
the rough and going back
over old ground, scoring
points with the trowel.

Then, when the work was
finished and we stood back
to congratulate each other
we realised our error,
for we stood on either side,
neither one of us able
to cross back over.

Added @ 02:06 PM to Poetry category on September 18, 1999