It was only last week
I realised how distinct
my people are

the same way we start to count
backwards from ten
just for the sound in our heads

my people

the same visceral conjecture
wind whispers over wheatfields
or the sea roars when you get too close

a great pre-industrial sweep of the hand
with one eye on the horizon
on what swallows our seed

my people

who else gets our jokes?
who else laughs quite like we laugh
a blind sparrow trapped in a classroom?

it is the sunglasses on the back of our head
the pencil behind our ear
it is written in the dust we raise

the same way we claim every great invention
by reducing each one to its diminutive
as though we were born with it in our hands

© Justin Lowe
from his book of poems 'Try Laughter'
pub. Deadpan Press 2000