The Watergaw

Hugh MacDiarmid

One wet, early evening in the sheep-shearing season
I saw that occasional, rare thing-
A broken shaft of a rainbow with its trembling light
Beyond the downpour of the rain
And I thought of the last, wild look you gave
Before you died.

The skylark's nest was dark and desolate,
My heart was too
But I have thought of that foolish light
Ever since then
And I think that perhaps at last I know
What your look meant then.