Grit dust lifts in a dry wind blown over the ruin’s stones,

Corkscrews in clouds of white pepper, rattles into the closed van

And my eyes as I work at the repairs.

Everything in the yard is broken; engines cracked like finger bones,

Locks twisted like the snapped necks of birds,

Even words on the business sign, even words break,

Blue vinyl peeling into the pale breeze.

I stand in the yard’s centre, unsteady on the day’s palm.

Sun-faded cap worn through at the peak, knee bone drilled with pain,

And in the work she fades, the woman, the one.

Everything in the yard is broken, and repairs are going slow.