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.