Sketching a Thatcher

Lyrics

Bird-bones is on the roof. Seventy-eight And still a ladder squirrel, Three or four nitches at a time, up forty rungs, Then crabbing out across the traverse, Cock-crows of insulting banter, liberated Into his old age, like a royal fool But still tortured with energy. Thatching Must be the sinless job. Weathered Like a weathercock, face bright as a ploughshare, Skinny forearms of steely cable, batting The reeds flush, crawling, cliffhanging, Lizard-silk of his lizard-skinny hands, Hands never still, twist of body never still - Bounds in for a cup of tea, 'Caught you all asleep!' Markets all the gossip – cynical old goblin Cackling with wicked joy. Bounds out - Trips and goes full length, bounces back upright, 'Haven't got the weight to get hurt with!' Cheers Every departure - 'Off for a drink?' and 'Off To see his fancy woman again!' - leans from the sky, Sun-burned-out pale eyes, eyes bleached As old thatch, in the worn tool of his face, In his haggard pants and his tired-out shirt - They can't keep up with him. He just can't Stop working. 'I don't want the money!' He'd Prefer a few years. 'Have to sell the house to pay me!' Alertness built in to the bird stare, The hook of his nose, bill-hook of his face. Suns have worn him, like an old sun-tool Of the day-making, and old shoe-tongue Of the travelling weathers, the hand-palm, ageless, Of all winds on all roofs. He lams the roof And the house quakes. Was everybody Once like him? He's squirmed through Some tight cranny of natural selection. The nut-stick yealm-twist's got into his soul, He didn't break. He's proof As his crusty roofs, He ladder-dances His blood light as spirit. His muscles Must be clean as horn. And the whole house Is more pleased with itself, him on it, Cresting it, and grooming it, and slapping it Than if an eagle rested there. Sitting Drinking his tea, he looks like a tatty old eagle, And his yelping laugh of derision Is just like a tatty old eagle's.