Broad shouldered, the house squats

hugging the bedrock

lest the restless air

drives underneath and lifts all skywards.

For even this much stone is fragile-

a clutter of rocks cut from a cliff face,

carried by boys who curse at last night’s beer.

A clutter of rocks heaved up and built,

constructed into form, realignment

of chaos to lines both plum and level.

Each stone reflects a bone reflects a thought,

each taught timber is a sinew of this beast.

See how it crouches in this sweat of light

before sunrise,

hunched like some dumb animal with

claws pulled in and

scales of slate laid flat and tight.

The last house whispers

some remembered sighs of

shipwrecked sailors.

A perpetual wind

haunted by wreckers

drives grit into our eyes.

We swear, but our trowels

cut and swing, then

bring new life to stone.