John Lammie Comes Home
He is made of moss,
he is made of stones
wet from the rain
and the river.
He diverts the stream
with his hands, replaces
old boundaries felt blind,
bowed in the cold flow-down.
Walking back he knows
where the mud is,
and the rough quality of its churn –
deer churn, sheep or cow;
how the hill seeps
bringing mist to the night
like curlews’ breaths,
stags running down the twilight.
He sees the last day-shapes of all
he has brought back to himself –
then goes inside to fight the damp
and the concrete’s long neglect;
squares off measured numbers,
builds things out of ink:
the way the world builds months,
the sky makes a moon.