Sprinkle me softly across

the sleeping shoulder of Medwyn’s bank,

where Carnwath Mill can look back at me

from the far side of the burn;

let the lifting breeze carry

my sleep like sunlight a little way

along Medwyn’s constant leaving, which

I would but cannot follow.

 

I will linger there awhile

in the company of my childhood,

and eavesdrop the voice of the water

in the Medwyn’s many throats,

and mingle my memory

with the wearings of the sanded rock

that chase across its recumbent brow

and gather in its creases.

 

And remember me sometimes.

Bring your children to leap the islands

and redeem from its dereliction

the old bridge with their crossings,

lie in wait for the otter,

and fathom the depths of the river’s

slide between slow banks overhung by

the heads of the stooping trees.

 

But mostly let their laughter

bell in the hollow of my childhood

and ring on the water’s bright surface;

let it sparkle in the sun

and sprinkle softly across

the sleeping shoulder of Medwyn’s bank,

where Carnwath Mill casts its constant look

from the far side of the burn.