MyBrother'sWinklepickers JonWood

Afterbricklayingfor twenty years, Icame down to London andstartedto write about myself. The poems are mainly about incompetence andfailure. There's some love thrown in as well. Itry not to thinkofthat as oil on troubledwaters.

FromwithinthevolumesoftheVilla Icouldhearhisapproach Taptaptap Hisfeetwerewoodpeckers

Theybroughthimoutintothesunshine Throughthegrandopendoor

FlankedbyRodins DressedinEnglishirony Setagainstabaroquefacade Encircledbywhitetopmountains Therehestoodinmockownership Brightwiththelake’slove Hewasstillthemasterofdigression

Hisfeettapping

Hiswordscircumventing Hiswitapaththroughaforestfire

Itseemedsolongagolastsummer Growinggravethroughexcessandage Hiscoatablanket Hesleptonmycouncilflatfloor Aflockofdrawingdraftsfluttering Unfinishedaroundhim HisWinklepickerslyingdormant

Hiswordstapered

Thenratatattap Theysenthimback ThroughtheGrandVilladoor