Pentecost

        John Burnside        

For Lucas

Morning; the usual walk

to the harbour:

the tide half-out

the fat mud fretted with bird-prints

light slurred with oil

and slicked reflections

ice-white or coffee-brown

strawberry red

or a blue that never arrives

at daylight.

We are here so you can name

the world you know

one object at a time:

fishing boat, lighthouse, herring gull, open sky,

those shoals of fish that skirt the harbour walls

searching for food

a work you never tire

of watching

as they break in hungry waves

against the weed.

On James Street there's a hut above the firth

that might have been a boat house

or a room

to dry the nets

its windows edged and barred

with yellow stonecrop

rosebay willow-herb

the dust that hangs for days in spiders' webs

then falls in spots like rain

falls in the rain

and turns to ink

a script I never learned

though guesswork takes me far enough at times

guesswork and hope

on days when every thought

recalls a children's prayer

a complex wish

expressed too clearly

in too simple words.

On James Street there's a hut above the firth

the pigeons have reclaimed

an unofficial

dovecote where we stop to watch the birds

that flare out from the chill or baking heat

beneath that roof

the slow discoloured wings

unfolding from a core of lime and rust

their fuddled

music more like gossip than the sound

a god might make

taking the shape of a bird

and entering his creatures

one by one

to bless them with new grace

and unknown tongues.

I never quite forgot the holy ghost

I learned in school

a spirit I would name

and then abandon

as we leave behind the words

that children say in prayers

a complex wish

we think about for years

and never tell

other than when we walk out with a son

or daughter

in a world we do not know

and name the things

one object at a time:

fishing boat, lighthouse, herring gull, clear blue sky.