Phil Wood

Dry Stone

Enough throughstones for repair work,
two lines of face and coping ready,
plenty of hearting in buckets.
Kate waits. Then skips across the field.

She’s shaping air with hands again,
her yellow frock a summer’s day.
Now it’s raining God’s own hailstones
stinging her skin that sunburnt red.

Copestones, a line of ragged teeth,
make weight, keep the face-stones down,
hoping to drain the rain. It’s hearting,
that’s tightly packed, which fills the gaps.

Does God smother the light? she shouts,
waving her hands, always my wife.
She skips across the field and waits.
We know how walls are built to stay.

Copyright © Phil Wood 2016

Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. His writing can be found in various publications, most recently in The Centrifugal Eye and


About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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