Dry Stone Wall

Feb 12 2016

A dry stone wall

is built with a hammer

a practised eye.

Found rock, placed with exactness

and left to gravity

to hold.

It goes
no higher than a man,

according to the strength of his back

his calloused hand.

It hugs the land,

settling

as the hard-scrabble soil subsides.

Rock that will weather

and soften

and last

as if it were the most natural thing on earth.

Standing

in a fallow field,

sagging, leaning

holding heat.

Over the years, the wall has greened,

hardy seeds

rooting in,

climbing plants

festooning it.

Like an ivy-covered cathedral.

Like some living breathing thing.

Someone’s great grandfather

built this sturdy wall

with skill, and toil.

I doubt he ever imagined

such permanence,

or thought of beauty

in his utilitarian work.

But things were made to last, back then.

And now

his great grandson

leans his weight against,

resting a hand

on the sun-warmed surface.

As if reaching back

and feeling his ancestor’s touch.

As if adding another small stone

to the unbreakable line

of descent.

The Globe and Mail has a daily piece called Lives Lived, in which family members or friends write a remembrance of someone who has recently died. It’s like a feature obituary; but of uncelebrated everymen (and women), who lead often remarkable lives, but in obscurity.

These can be excellent inspiration for poetry. And this proved so today. In the short introduction that preceded the latest Lives Lived -- along with a few words about his family and professional life -- he was described as a builder of dry stone walls; presumably, a beloved hobby. I recalled a poem I wrote about just this, many years ago. (At that time, it was inspired by a fascinating article in the New Yorker.) There must be something about dry stone walls I find irresistible, because I again felt compelled to write another version of the same poem. (And “compulsion” is the perfect word, because it must have been just half an hour and the rough draft had pretty much written itself.)

It was only after I completed today’s piece that I dug into the archives and unearthed this, from 2004. I’m pleased by the comparison, because my writing has clearly progressed:  smoother prosody, a little simpler. Which is all one can hope for, over 10 years on! (Although I think, with some judicious editing – mostly shorter lines and a little more compression – the original stands up very well.)

Stone Wall

June 2 2004

This wall was built

from the ground up,

a taciturn man who worked by touch

piling stones without mortar

nesting one above the other with infallible judgement

to make it strong and level and snug.

The way it hugs this ancient land’s soft contours

and settles hard against the soil,

impregnable to eventual subsidence

and flood waters rising

and heaving frost

that would crack mortar and topple cemented rock.

By hand

thickly calloused and impossibly broad

whose powerful grip you would not mistake for a sedentary man,

discarded rocks scattered on the fallow land

that in time the sod will swallow.

But never this sturdy wall.

Which is all anyone might hope for.

To make something that lasts,

how a humble man becomes immortal.