HEAVEN WAITS THE RUBBLE MASON

In sleep he dreams mosaic visions
cut stone upon stone, the cackle of hens
sounds with sledge blast
striking an invisible grain.

Body in full motion
sweats sun heat to reach an apex --
their cold touch speaks to him of color
hidden within split shells.

At bancum, cobble wedged on thigh,
mash hammer and carbide pitch in hand,
eyes blink away scars
of chips punched to heart, forty years
a blunt trowel skipping stiff mud.

Sons, daughters, brothers of stone,
a family emerges to ring a hard breast.
Black Velvet gallon, golden on fresh hearth
for the small fire, ritual
fertility of first flame.

][<en Follett