Brick   Time rots one, but they don’t break rank— not English bond. One frets to its spade of earth, abandons neat geometry, but the walls hold— the Empire faltered as flesh, not brick.   Bricks, like fire and water, are happy serving. Goad them with bombs and their tumbling kills all the King’s men— bricks lose respect for flesh and crush to the bone.   Winston Churchill was a hobbyist bricklayer. He knew that brick upon brick was like winning a war—gradually. Let your opponent wear himself thin planning cold cities of marble, while you consolidate with barrow and…