Above the tree line and below the fog
I watched two men on the opposite slope
hauling wooden poles and slabs of dressed stone
from the foot of the hill towards the top.

They didn’t stall – just lifted, carried, dropped.
I watched for an hour or thereabouts,
way off, but close enough in a straight line
to bundle them over with a big shout.

Away from the five o’clock of the town,
out from under the axles and bruised skies
it bothered me that men should hike this far
to hoick timber and rock up a steep bank.

Because what if those poles were fencing posts
to hammer home, divide a plot of land
between the two of them, and those dumb stones
the first steps to a new Jerusalem?