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.
My Writing Life 