Wheelbarrow

The ivy’s writing along
a redbrick wall

reminds me of the scrawl
of the sight test,

aged six, when asked to
identify a picture of a small

container with one wheel
and two legs. Whîlber

was the only word
I had for that,

so I pretended it was my sight
that was at fault.

My vision now is clearer
as I guide the barrow up

the steep paths of the orchard.
Outlines of caravans are etched

in rows on gardens sold
by court order in the fifties

so people could have a holiday
with a view. Now I have a view

of them all year round.
There’s a word for that

in my third language, only
it’s slipped my mind.