THE PLASTERER

He had a way with walls;
His arms windscreen-wiping over the surface
His float arcing like a skater’s blade on ice
Wiping the lines that had gone before.

In between times he kneaded a bucket of pink dough
Or sprinkled the walls with cloudy water
IN NOMINEE PATREE, ET FILE, ET SPIRITU SANCTUS
His shiny head speckled like a giant plover’s egg.

His good eye was his spirit level
Unblinking until every line was true
All corners trim and proper
Reminding me, for some reason, of you.