Balgownie Swansong

Haworth Hodgkinson

Young and old
cross the high pointed arch,
Pause at the apex
to study the river.

Ducks try to stand on the scatterdrop surface,
reach for the leafy sky.
A detached log lies in wait.

On a patch of muddy shore
a lone figure stands fishing, sings:

I'll still be here long after you've left;
when you return I'll have gone.

A notice details by-laws:
no bathing or wading:
protection from age old pollution.

Low trees dip branches in forbidden waters
as chickweed emerges from the tide.

A hundred miles and half as many years upstream,
the fisherman swims in clear water.

But this is a land
not for children,
not for the ever-was child:
a bridge from executive cottar town
to concrete student village.

Sounds of tennis court
and football field
mark serious play
from the day's hard work.

Anxious at midsummer's end,
crows bugle from their lofty barracks.
Wood pigeons roost.

Sodium lights awake, reflecting in the water
the sandstone granite patchwork.

Featherflies circle.

Couples linger a moment,
hear the screaming bellbirds and chattering leaves
then, shivering, move on.

Swansong at evenfall,
fisherman murmurs:

I'll still be here long after you've left;
when you return I'll have gone.

I'll still be here long after you've left;
when you return I'll have gone.

I'll still be here long after you've left;
when you return I'll have gone.

Written 2000
Revised 2001-2003

Published in Storm Issue 2, 2003
(Koo Press)