The Look of Things

i.m. Helen Lamb

by Chris Powici

I can’t even guess the joy
you felt, kneeling on the raked earth
between the fence and shed
in old trainers and black jeans
sure of what the May sun meant
for any stubborn, scented life
and your secateurs’ neat nip
made some flower I couldn’t name
stand bright among the quiet ferns.

Instead, I’ll walk to Sheriffmuir
lean against the broken gate
at the foot of Lairhill Wood
and do my best to say the look of things 
cloud-soaked pines, wet bracken
moor grass swaying in the breeze 
though words may fail me, even so.
I have watched the come-and-go
of wind and rain for years, and still
I hardly know the world.