Sally Evans

(1942 / London)

Alders


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.

Submitted: Wednesday, June 05, 2013
Edited: Friday, August 02, 2013

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