Portrait Poem by Michael Cayley

Speech is spare as girders. 'G'mornen''
on a rare day, but like as not
just a hint of a nod will barely quiver
his straight lines. His arm extends
into a three-foot steel tube
propping the leaning torso. Stark eyes
never flicker as workmen round him
manoeuvre jib or concrete slab,
taking for granted the motionless orders
sensed rather than heard. The nearer to him,
the quieter their jokes ripple,
respecting the years that have hardened the body
and turned the silent blood to real keg-bitter.