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Cairders Burn
Paddling
In the summer sun
Gasping
In the sharpness of the stream.
Cold
Rocks beneath our feet
Lead on to warm sands.
Sailing
Paper boats and Pooh sticks
In its smooth rush
To whirling dreams
Bearing us mid insects drone
To distant mystic lands.
Searching, seeking
Sticklebacks
Beneath the concrete bridge
A distant vista,
Green fields filled
With thistles.
Beside the path
Black-crust slices wrap
An edge of cheese
Swilled down with
Irn-Bru.
George McEwan
Cultiezeowan
Hawthorn hedgerows
Line the lane
Their needle fingers guarding
Hidden avian treasures.
Ushering us to the marshy copse
Where prehistoric lizards writhe
Amid the speckled spawn.
While the chorus croak
Of frogbacked frogs
Heralds our approaching
Raid.
George McEwan
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