Pim Claridge

Life in the Scottish Borders, one stanza at a time


I put my hand upon the gate that you once opened years ago,
then walked along the river's edge below the chestnut trees,
the little steps, uneven now, lead to the water's edge
where you would have landed from the rocking boat,
and put your hand upon that slender, rusting rail?
the old house was sleeping, eyes closed towards the sun,
and thick yew hedges hugged as we sat
and watched the ponies graze the greening grass.
I could almost hear your footfalls whisper as you pass
along the path that runs around the house..
trees along the river banks are full, and pale, lush green,
while buttercups and daisies make patterns underneath.
the river mutters over stones smoothed by years of flow
and flood, and flood again, until all is polished smooth,
and another year has passed.