Now shadows have lengthened and sun
strikes our faces at such a sharp angle
burnt eyes can’t make out the western
land in the afternoon, east in the morning
Fraying string, knotted round the handle,
stays the hinges of the door, and in the wind
the lean-to at the valley’s head
knocks against its older harder neighbour
This the house, which like a dry-stone wall
turns to its advantage weight, a shoulder,
rusticated quoin-stones stacked
and squared against the squall that lifts away
The spiders’ provisional scaffolding, too small
for eyes like ours to tell if they were hopeful