Poetry by Christie Dickason

On researching the farms

Oh, lists! You sneaky illusions of understanding,
flattering as you seem to feed.
I scrump proper nouns,
cram my sack with names.
'Coppiced hazel, hawthorn, blackthorn,
elder, guelder rose and crab' -
that's a hedgerow safely bagged!'
I seize at words as if labels
gave possession. I imagine
meaning in a wheat
called 'Alchemy' or a Land Rover called
'Defender'. 'Jenkin's Field' – there's
a story there I almost grasp.
Oh, lists, you coded messages dense
with hidden import.
‘Short work, scoots and suckler calves,
warp mill, sleigh and clock-geese...'
you seductive flirts!
I feel richer with you than without, but
how you elude and tease
with the start of so many unfinished tales.
Your combined weight must surely
press itself at last into my deepest
comprehension.

But striving to make order of the world,
I'm slowly forced to see that
what I name, without that name will
still just simply be, untroubled by
whether it makes sense or not.
Oh, list! How you have humbled me.