Here is a wonderful poem by my father;
I look down from the balcony
And my vision falls
On that part of the building
Made up of bluestone walls.
Sometimes I hear the clacking
As the trowels lay down the base;
Sometimes the hammers tapping
As the stones are laid in place.
And I see the ancient foreman
With a plumb bob in his hand
Saying “Thin the mix there Norman
Add just a little sand”.
Now the stones remain quite perfect
And the joints are neat and grey;
Are the ghostly hands that laid them
Still maintaining them today?
Forty years or so before
The First World War began
The masons worked hard to ensure
The joints all level ran.
Now their children’s, children’s children
Have multiplied a score
From their father’s, father’s father
Who built the walls next door.
Is the skill of the old masons,
Who lie beneath the clay,
By technology diluted
In the masons of today?