Quarry Men

Born of hammers and chisels
quarry men spend darkened days
in the brown earth, chipping away
bedrock. Light trickling through
cracks in the stone
walls. They fill the land
with their blood, marry
the next woman in line.

Somewhere it all goes wrong,
a daughter dresses for love.

Hymns of conscription march
over the horizon. The wind scatters
villagers to ports, quarry men to
a maiden voyage stained by bodies.

Her new husband falls ill, sells his ticket.

He travels alone. She stands

seven children for seven days
in frocks and bonnets, sharing
binoculars with strangers, always on
the lookout for icebergs.

From grassy open country,
from sediment and silt

to the dull greyish olive of a willow flycatcher
and the striking crest of a blue jay.

A stonemason, like those before
him, forgives his history, builds
a railway, marries
seven daughters to seven farmers, and
spends his days dreaming of light trickling
through cracks in the wall.

From "Brushing Back History" a chapbook of poetry by Valerie Poulin.