raw hands lift, another coarse slab, <br />my father takes the strain at <br />the other end, crablike shuffle, to <br />laid sand – where, the slab, like <br />those before it, is released, to <br />come crashing down – with a <br />dull wet thud. with each slab, <br />a wordless bond is reinforced, <br />stone by exhausting stone. <br />such physical work, translates <br />more, with my father, than a <br />thousand words of affection.<br /><br />Christopher Withers<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/building-a-patio/
