Thatcher

Bespoke for weeks, he turned up some morning Unexpectedly, his bicycle slung With a light ladder and a bag of knives. He eyed the old rigging, poked at the eaves, Opened and handled sheaves of lashed wheat-straw. Next, the bundled rods: hazel and willow Were flicked for weight, twisted in case they'd snap. It seemed he spent the morning warming up: Then fixed the ladder, laid out well honed blades And snipped at straw and sharpened ends of rods That, bent in two, made a white-pronged staple For pinning down his world, handful by handful. Couchant for days on sods above the rafters, He shaved and flushed the butts, stitched all together Into a sloped honeycomb, a stubble patch, And left them gaping at his Midas touch.