
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