Skilled Worker

He spends his days peering
into charmless caverns
shining lamps into damp spaces.
Some may emanate sweetness
others odours redolent of decay
neglected tombs of joyful times.
Ranged in the wet warm darkness
rear up the standing rocks
deep-rooted white in rose-hued beds.
Some crags discoloured
cracked and fissured
teeter in amatanthine gloom.
His silvery instruments
flash and glint reflecting
movement of his twisting wrist.
He probes the noisome depths
casts jets of water, blasts of air.
An adamantine surface
pierced, a bridge in place,
a brace applied. He toils
unchallenged among cavities.
His wordless victim lies
supine and tense, fists clenched
the whole world contracted
to a white coat, a whining drill.

Sylvia Goodman