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THE STONEMASON.

The sun-scorched weathered stone,
Feels warm in his coarse dry hand.

The watery rich grey earth,
Sweats through the hot dry sand.

With flashing angled steel,
He slices the yielding mound,

And lays the stone to rest,
On a bed of mortary ground.

With skilful rhythmic ease,
He tools the measured joints,

And builds with random stone,
The structure he appoints.

(C. B. Thomas.  9/8/88).

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ONLY STONES.

Ancient in weathers,
Now touched by flesh,

Is awakened to use,
From its secret grave.

Is breathed on,
Warmed by the sun.

And pleasant to my palm,
As it exerts the sinew.

Before its final place,
Against the storms, in a wall.

(R. Thomas.  9/8/88).

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