The creation of the hole was a reverent occasion.
Men stood in silent semicircle whilst the foreman,
with both hands, lifted his bowler, placed it on the plank
moved it, with great care, precisely into place.
With a pencil he drew around the brim and a hole
of exactly the right size was cut, chamfered, sanded.
The walls are precision built of pristine, hard, red, brick
the mortar etched more than one finger deep.
The door now sags into the ground, hinges as inflamed
as any joint could be and would never close.
The seat of the same old grey wood spanned
an ancient bucket that had still to rust through.
It never overflowed. Mam-gu** would empty it,
I never found where.
© Anthony Fisher February 2008