Master Thatcher Copyright © Richard Whiting 2011

My father is a Master Thatcher;
I watch him leap up the ladder
Laden with Maris Widgeon Straw
Or Double Wale Norfolk Reed;
He’s a gymnast, high-wire guy
The hero of our golden summers.

Once I longed to join him;
Feel the summer sun upon my back
Painting my skin the colour of reeds
That hid the Broadland bitterns;
But a change in the weather
Presaged my own migration.

Recently, I’ve noticed a change,
A drop off in his pace
As if the rungs have grown
Much further apart,
His spars less sharp
His seventy-year guarantee growing thin.

Everyday, he carries fewer reeds
To fill the ever-increasing holes
He struggles to plug.
The smile, the whistle, the athlete
Have started to rot, worn right back
To expose his batons.

His hands are raw and lined,
His arms crazy-paved with cuts,
His brow beaded with fresh blood.
He looks across the fields
And the distance reveals
Phragmites on the wane.

And now I want nothing more
Than to be his apprentice;
To be let into his world.
How good to practice his trade;
To exhibit the skill of his experience
Through the medium of my own hands.

I could keep out the rains of autumn,
And the snows of winter storms,

At least for a while
At least for a while.