The Bull
South of Scotland Electricity Board, 1964
Hands that inhabit no pocket, wrists
bare as cow-hide flecked with Scottish ale,
deft on the polished pick or spade. Blisters
long healed and calloused, archetypal male,
he sings little, speaks less, and satisfies
his own eye in that section of the dig.
He winkles out the proud stones, mortified
till sides are plaster-smooth, gives no fig
for the ragged requirements of overseers,
the vowels of time, dry studies of work.
And jointers, who praise him over the years
as they solder blind and stagger the dark,
know about targets and rings around
and the bull that strays, and won’t give ground.
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