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BRICKS
The book, discovered at a Christmas fair,
Shows pictures of a brickyard in the cold.
The men wear braces, shirtsleeves, greasy caps,
Their brows are lined; they could be young, or old.
Each face is strained, resigned; the work is tough.
I marvel that they stood it; did they earn enough?
England expanded on these working men;
For centuries they broke their backs and hands
To raise the thronging buildings of this land.
The great, the gabled, chimneyed, terraced, tall,
The modest home, the Court, the Lodge, the Hall.
In Flemish bond, and English, England spread,
And now the brickies are all gone, all dead.
Yet in these red-leaved days of dying fall,
The sun recalls them, down the garden wall.
This poem was one of the winning entries in a recent "The Oldie" Literary competition. A poem on the theme "Bricks" was the set subject of the competition. Congratulations to Gillian for once again having a winning entry in this monthly competition, and thanks to her for permission to post it on the blog.
