We took him on twenty years ago To build fences and never told him to stop. The estate would seem lost without the sticky thud Like distant guns as his hammer stuns The fenceposts headfirst into the earth. He works with care but no passion, which is good; Passion's a luxury, a distraction Bred in the brain though the sorry bone Must carry the motion when the brain gets bored. True, his mind's elsewhere - in the house He must share with his ex-wife at least until Some cash is raised - But his body is making for reparation, Staking the perpetual division of land East from west, won from lost, Man from woman, wound from suture, Unfulfilled till he divides the day Past from future.