Making Bricks Poem by Peter Jones

The steel flashes bright
as my pickaxe draws circles in air
and plunges moist; deep from light
into the softer Wealden clay
sinking in to it’s redness there
unimpeded, cutting, loosening, winning
unafraid upon the day.

Side by side we pass the hours
working at our silent task;
save for our flowers of sweat -
small beads of honesty
and dignity of good purpose.
And no-one passed us by to ask
the reason why we were well met.

Rich the seam and richer still the confirmation
that the day was freely won from some obscurity,
in undisturbed beds that saw no sun, and pure in affirmation.

This clay shall weather but not tire: prepared for coming years.
Shaped by hand and deftly cut,
then heated by some inner fire:
an incandescent furnace, but with newly uncontrolled desire.

The bricks that were not there,
now are in tangible reality,
and will form a corner of some home
stood tall, foursquare against the rain;
remembered just by we alone
who formed the clay,
and so remain,
for they, like us
have travelled far.