To read him say he wipes the window into childhood and sees its workers Artisans at Veneto doorways hewers of wood and grinders of knives Is to wipe across the winter window and watch trades as they went: Milkman, leave those bottles on the footpath catch up with your clink-clink horse cart Garbage man, empty the stinking bins from the shoulder, set down with grace Butcher, amidst sawdust air, sever the offal slice the lines accurately for hours Ironmonger, lift the weight and feel the time it will take for a hard sale Blacksmith, fashion more glowing horseshoes in the shed behind the bowsers Knitters, by day and night make home comfort go full length He helps us see work without sentiment labour worth the years it takes Who are we, tied to the end of cables our income a set of numbers in a vault? And what are our chances of breakthrough to an arca