Home Improvement

With much fussing over plumb-lines and protective cladding
The bricks are finally being placed in their course.
Our breath held as the crystal panes disappear, their gleam
Soon obscured up to knee-level by the mortared wall.

The builders look strangely at me when I bring them tea
And I brace myself for last minute quote-inflations.
Yes, I’ll miss the dawn setting your hair on fire
And the stars wheeling over our bed.

But by next week we will be able to walk around
With our bottoms bared and the neighbours none the wiser.
A few feet higher and you’ll be able to pick your nose
As often as you like. I’ll knit lies over dinner,

Stockpile insults by every arrow-slit and fabricate a store
Of names to call the postman.
Sandbag the back porch, my love,
and booby-trap the roses,

For once the glass roof is planked over and slated
We will be entirely immune from attack.
Winch the drawbridge up
and watch the final shards

Interleaving with the ice on the surface of the moat.
Stand by to commence throwing stones.