Once, we sang this river. By Tweed’s flashing rill, ‘neath the Eildon hill…every child knew it.
Boistering over the Bottle Bridge, our chorus rattled the bus. Friends from the garden side footed it to school, banned from bouncing on the swaying swing bridge. Kids in space above winter torrent and summer flux.
In our early springs, we went first-finding along the spring banks. Ten terms on, peely-wally in pants, we doggy-paddled at Laundry Corner, squealing at eels while the weeds waved us on.
Hippy Mrs Hardy with her Afghan hound had us scouring for stones. Jasper and carnelian, semi-precious, rattle their reminders down the keepsake years.
Here’s Hazel pedalling home for lunch, gold hair flying.
Lesley, alone, parks her pink bike by the pebbled out-pipe, swats the surface with her fishing net.
Heady under the limes, Fifi dreams of boys, while scouts paddle earnestly by.
‘My dad swam for a dram!’ laughs Kate, ‘Across the water to Harry’s house!’ But when the river filled the fields, we were dumb with its power.
And there’s me, facing the ford with a hundred ride-outers, flanked and dammed by the big bay mare.
The swing bridge has been bolted and boosted, safer now. We dwell on its old elegant self, lightly suspended.
The Tweed courses on, past our middle-pause to marry the sea. The fish force home through the flood.