Last year we managed to almost complete 

Four times one-thousand pieces over Summer 

When our necks bent like question-marks 

Backs braced like the cats-haunches for the leap 

The languorous wondering for the right-shape 

From the crochet shade of the apple tree 

Relief from the sun that tumbled down  

Our spines   bare and bronzing or peeling as we stared 

Puzzled at the pieces on the table  

Pausing one-by-one to reach for the right-one 

Rare finger-tip chance encounters in the space that lingered above 

And we’d work away patiently or we’d scramble for the appropriate  

Link      and sometimes provoke laughter or a little captives’ rage  

Over the wrong tree trunk or the right man's left foot or the corner piece lost 

The year before to the wind   This year we hold tightly to each-and-every-link 

Last year we managed to almost finish 

Two times one-thousand pieces over Christmas 

Hands put to work - fingers fumbled for flat edges 

For borders and shape    to hold the rest   to hold