Open Reach girl 20.07.2011.

Tall, quiet, assured,

you came right to

the address,

no messing.

Unassuming you were,

though people,

I assume,

assumed.



You read my notice;

'Bell not working-

knock loudly. Thankyou.'



You knocked loudly.

As I opened up, you

stood before me-

all there in navy blue and

high viz, a paramedic

of the wires;

apologised for

knocking loudly,

took down my details,

assured me that

there would be a line.

Smiled a mile-wide

smile.



At the olive green

junction box, you rearranged

combinations, threw switches,

did not flinch,

separated wires,

bundled the twisted

red and yellow pairs.

Worked alone.

Phoned home.



Reaching the van

you pulled down the ladder,

threw up the climbing gear,

made your way up the gaffs,

got down to it,

gathered up the loops

on the dead-end pole,

hard-hatted and braced

for anything,

spidered up there.



You hugged the pole, peered

at the wire web,

pulled on mechanic's

white gloves,

reached the supply space,

cradled the box,

opened it.



Intent on the problem

you knew you could solve,

you worked it out,

stared it out,

embraced it as

the unforgiving sun glanced

off your linesman's hard hat,

faded your vest,

glinted on your tool pouch,

heated the creosote,

shone fiercely.



I revelled in your

level-headedness.

The way you,

sure-footed

and booted,

outshone others without

meaning to,

climbed poles

whether greasy or not,

gripped the gaffs,

twisted the wires,

inspired-

accidentally.



Afterwards, you shouldered

the ladders, slotted them

back on the van roof,

thanked me for nothing,

three-point-turned neatly;

left, no sweat.