A lattice marked upon the stone in red rests, readying the canvas wall.
“Oi – put it back how it was.”
A piece of off-cut – hewn – ‘s replaced, its miniature scene depicted ‘pon its smoother side in its own lattice.
“Sorry…”
Two grids, lain down ‘pon each surface, their calculated squares collecting up, in tessellated time, their timeless, abstract forms.
“’S’okay. Just: neither me, nor you, nor god-king wants to see Osiris with a massive head.”
Gigguhling, she looks o’er at an unmarked column.
“I do want to see it!”
Chuckuhling, he brushed a soot-black line across a register in symmetry.
“I suppose I could always blame the chiseller…”
Smiling – soft – she watched, at work, two men who measured, parallel.
“Must be hard to make those grids on the columns.”
He gave a glance toward the men she watched, and nodded, adding:
“Gods, yeah…”
The sun disc set a fire across the pre-noon sky.
Image credit – Alan Marshall
william altoft 