Lancashire Bloods

Lancashire Bloods

Sitting by a bistro,

in the city,

I was mulling the

flavors of a fantastic

Panini Italiano.

It was warm

down in Chelsea,

antique in my corner.

The bricks

in a wall,

a broken,

crippled wall,

spoke to me.

They grew thoughts

to me,

single ingots

of countless sagas.

They were Lancashire bloods,

new in 1900,

as books,

on shelves,

unread,

noble novels

without words.

Each had felt the

grip

of a chiseled hand,

a gentle push

atop wet mortar.

They took their place

beside

one another,

each brick,

every course,

placed there

by a mason,

assisted perhaps

by an apprentice.

a thought, or wish,

attached to each.

When he first knelt

by the cornerstone,

had he been content?

Had he a wife

and children,

debts unpaid?

For sure,

I’d felt

what he had that day,

during

the third course,

there had been tears,

a funeral

for his father

he’d attended that morning.

Pigeons crowded

the lonely pavilion,

beside the mason,

and the

brick by his side.

Each red brick,

a memory,

a moment,

flower,

year,

season,

smile,

parade.

An arm,

a hand,

his,

a brick,

a trowel’s tap,

lilt of mortar,

knees to earth,

another course

toward sky.

Storied stories,

each wall

a prince,

hand hewn

by kings,

Lancashire bloods,

in course

atop course,

lime and sand,

water and lunches,

and walks

by the walls.

Lovely tales

entail,

once the brick

leaves

the kiln’s

bake…

Their stories

begin.

Hayward 2006