The burn ran down under alders.
It stood wide, almost a river.
Smooth stones splashed along
its slippery shallow divide,
current fast, clear, flawless
as it dropped, liquid, left to right,
handwriting the white flashes,
light between alder shadows.
Alders snaked across the meadows,
marked the burn's hidden hollow
where we stood, wet and exultant.
After a search we had found
the watercourse that matched a dream,
a dream and memory
of the alders' flat shady green
wet-rooted and miniature-coned,
set amid droplets of cloud,
white worn broken branches
and lichen-lacy stone.
We had stood there
already, minor currents
directed round our ankles
as water blended in
with the alders' grace-notes
to create a perfect past.
It had happened, was ready,
this pluperfect dream.
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