Born in the brickolithic period and now a near extinct species,
Ancient master of trowels and pointers, with a bad prognoses.
Natural habitat, barren land, a rich concrete dust atmosphere,
Scattered with mixers and half bats, completely disappeared.

Scales are bronzed, tattooed and thoroughly weather-beaten,
Body is a monument to the many full English’s I have eaten.
Alert, tired, hooded eyes are again surveying strange terrain,
Fondly viewing the ageing edifices, I’ve created, once again.

Walking toward the setting sun, casting a very strange shadow,
Stooped, carrying a dusty old bag and wildly smoking tobacco.
There it is, my magnum opus, my life’s work is now complete,
Last of my kind, with bricklayer’s hands and pterodactyl feet.


Makes me think that ...

Bricklaying is a serious skill, especially when you have bricklayer's hands, pterodactyl feet and an English breakfast body. Dynotrowel seems to have it all.


Lorraine Ansell


This poem is narrated by Lorraine Ansell​ a British female voice over artist who is graciously supporting WorkInWords.

If you would like to make a recording of this poem, click here to find out how.

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