An eerie icy builders yard
tools, equipment and materials
do forlornly lie 
A barrow with a squeaky
wonky wheel
Caked with cement
bruised with grit

Planks of un-plained
knotted wood rest
amidst rusted terracotta
scaffolding clamps
A thousand screws and nails
some misshapen, aged
extracted, used,
deemed useless
caress bags of unused
carpet tacks and masonry bolts

Creosote in a lonely
twisted drum
Snuggling next to
un-soaked hard bristled
paint brushes, in which
white spirit or turpentine bath
have not been, seen or heard

Quality wood shavings
stories to tell of crafted
pieces of art, sanded fireplace
waiting for tinder and spark
to show its prowess
in a dim art deco world 

Empty plaster bags exuding dust
held down by cable
in coils of red yellow and green
how many houses would
it all have been laid
connected and fed
with current, voltage
and amperage to power

Bricks and breeze blocks
are the overlords here
Boasting of ambitious
structures intended
These lie preserved, protected
in the bricklayers lean-to
perhaps waiting patiently
for a hod to carry them
to grace the space to build
when the Master Builder returns?
But will he ever return?