Building Wall




The salvage work is first. Not every brick
belonging to the former fallen wall
can be reclaimed. An excavator’s quick

to help the builders pile up quite a haul
of brownish clay and greyish mortar, from
about two hundred years before the fall.

A cutter starts, and soon the total sum
of bricks the men could use in their rebuild
is ample; but sufficient? Next, a thrum – ­

the excavator’s back. The site is tilled
and trenched to yield a long and narrow pit
along the boundary, ready to be filled,

but not with bricks. Not quite enough to fit
the fresh foundations; there’s a lack of cash,
perhaps, to source elsewhere. But nifty kit,

a concrete mixer now, turns sand and ash
and rock with water and a stern cement
to make a base and pour it with a splash

inside the bed of soil. A fast descent;
the slowest set, however, as the rains
are here, determined. For a while the scent

of cool wet earth prevails; no further gains
are possible. But once the sky has cleared,
it’s time to lay the bricks. The scant remains

of uncompleted hedgerow have been sheared;
the row of birches, massacred to nought.
The wall arises steeply, triple tiered,

just as the local council said it ought
to be – it’s practical, precise and slick,
immaculate.
                    I miss the old wall’s faults.

Felicity Teague


If you have any thoughts about this poem, Felicity Teague would be pleased to hear them