At elevenses, she comes down
for a builder's tea and a sandwich.
She stands against the ladder
scratching her gnat-bitten back,
stretching knees sore from the biddle,
braces unshouldered round her waist.
Seeing me in the window she waves.
I wave back, pretend to be busy.
Maybe she'll catch her forefinger
with the spragger and need me
to carry out first aid, play doctor.
But she's done this hundreds of times.
Her fulfilment is no empty cliché
about A Woman In A Man's World.
It's something I inhabit, a warm dry
that keeps me snug in the backroom
when I'm at my desk quoting a line
by Mao: Women hold up half the sky.
[Lady Thatcher]