The rain was sliverin on the windae pane
when you gaed oot tae pick strawberries,
reid pockit moons, for the denner table.
There ye were, on your hunkers in the weet,
fingers ficherin amon the dried bleed
and green o the leaves. The net’s tent flap twisted
in a fankle. Your airm was a swan’s neck,
raxin oot and pykin amon the berries
wi strae pendants plattit roond their reets.
Your face was set, sun-birstled, douce-lookin
my dear. Ye michta been a peasant quine
in some Russian laird’s kitchen gairden,
i the time o the Tsars. Or the goddess
o earth, close to the grun as your fit-soles.
The Italianate helmet o your heid
(wi the weive o siller thro the slae-black)
hings like a black sun abeen your wark.
I staund and watch ye thro the smirry gless
eident and bou-backit and still bonny,
and the haill poem says like some hubberer
‘I love ye’. Ye cam back ower the chuckies
and only when your een meet mine, ye smile,
haudin the bouwl’s brazier o strawberries.