"We want you to tarmac the drive,"
"There's a manhole cover here," he said,
"Let me check your drain." So down he went.
The rocking ladder was twice his height.
Next he stretched up, to his full height,
In a brick room from which pipes went.
He walked about beneath the ground.
(The voices faded over ground)
Climbed back; then told them all he found.
No drive was laid. On his new broom
He leans to tarmac's glistening bloom.
His eyes survey the shadows' room.
If you've any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be
pleased to hear from you.