Sunday, 21 July 2013

Riverbank listening 02

I have walked the dry Huntlyburn before. (It loses it water to farming needs in a reservoir further up each year.)

This poem first appeared in Northwords Now.

The burn bed

The sheets are pulled back
leaving a scuff of algae
like the velvet jacket
on the back of a drunk.

The stepping stones of the ford
mosaic the mud
for a generation.

That last pool endured
days of scum and midge
pokes for fry
until it too was dry.

Desert scrolls and stones
litter this new path
beneath meadowsweet walls;
the depth of the pot

attracts a shoal of blackbirds
to hoe its moist furrows.

I wake myself to follow.

© Bridget Khursheed

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