My Brother's Winklepickers Jon Wood After bricklaying for twenty years, I came down to London and started to write about myself. The poems are mainly about incompetence and failure. There's some love thrown in as well. I try not to think of that as oil on troubled waters.
From within the volumes of the Villa I could hear his approach Tap tap tap His feet were woodpeckers They brought him out into the sunshine Through the grand open door Flanked by Rodins Dressed in English irony Set against a baroque facade Encircled by white top mountains There he stood in mock ownership Bright with the lake’s love He was still the master of digression His feet tapping His words circumventing His wit a path through a forest fire It seemed so long ago last summer Growing grave through excess and age His coat a blanket He slept on my council flat floor A flock of drawing drafts fluttering Unfinished around him His Winklepickers lying dormant His words tapered The Winklepickers twitched 3
