raw hands lift, another coarse slab,
my father takes the strain at
the other end, crablike shuffle, to
laid sand – where, the slab, like
those before it, is released, to
come crashing down – with a
dull wet thud. with each slab,
a wordless bond is reinforced,
stone by exhausting stone.
such physical work, translates
more, with my father, than a
thousand words of affection.
Christopher Withers
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/building-a-patio/
