Barna's Crucifixion (3)

I think I can remember, maybe dreamed,

a bright green field one handsome summer day, 

the Duke's blue tent resplendent with its flags, 

his drummers practising for Festival, 

a sense of things to come -- that's happiness --

a chimera you're certain you deserve, 
but, like the Jews in their Messiah-vigil,
you wait until the waiting rots your bones,
and in your heart concede it's not for you.
I don't see life as hopeless -- goodness, no.
It's possible to wade through misery,
to cross, and clamber out the other side.
And work will help you do it. I don't love
my work. But I have reached accommodation.
A labourer is what I happen to be,
a cobbler, sir. A brandisher of tools.
The habit of work bestows dexterity,
an easy, nerveless knack of hand and eye,
but it takes back. I'm not so steady now.
I do not relish ladders. Spandrel work,
above head height, with cold paint dripping down,
is horror for an old man's finger joints.

Author's Note

Spandrel work -- If we look at the illustration (Masolino's "Annunciation"), we will see that the entire annunciation scene lies outside the span of the arch. These spaces are "spandrels"