The Pothole Man**

That's what we used to call him
Although I'm sure he had a proper job title
Brown weather beaten face and tar stained hands
Always a greasy old flat cap on his head
Always a shabby old army great coat
To us kids he was very old
In reality probably in his fifties
Anyway
His job was to repair the potholes in about
Ten miles of country roads
He always carried his tools in a wheel barrow
Rake, shovel and a heavy flat bottomed piece of metal
On the end of a stout pole
Every couple of miles there were a few sacks of tarmac
Beside the road
He was meticulous in cleaning out the potholes
Every loose stone, dust removed
Then he'd fill his bucket with tarmac and heat it over
A wood fire
Overfill the hole by a couple of inches and rake it level
It had to be just right, maybe add a bit more
Perhaps shovel some out
Then the heavy metal plate would rise and fall
With a slow steady thump
Beating the tarmac flush with the road surface
He always finished by pouring tar found the edges
Of the new patch
Round holes, square holes, rectangular holes
Holes of all shapes and sizes
To us he was just the pothole man
Now looking back he really took pride in what he did