Milton Part One: Dreams & Memories

from the lapping bow
of a drifting boat
before the sun goes down
behind the brow of Dumbuck Hill

rowing across Dunbowie Loch
known to some as White’s Dam
designed to turn the timber wheel
of the calico printing mill
now a ruined gothic tower
where laughing jackdaws nest
a stone’s throw from the pink house
with its porch and pediment and flight of steps

walking home rod in hand
down rhododendron walks
beneath the tall trees of the glen
whose trunks still bear the initials
expanding in the bark with age
of lonely and love-sick soldiers
billeted here in World War One

watching the tugs and tankers pass
far below on the River Clyde
as they slowly make their way
to Bowling and beyond
and hearing the melancholy foghorns blast
when the valley is wrapped in smog
while we in our superior world
enjoy the rays of winter sun
like passengers in a plane
in heavens blue over cloud

skating early on virgin ice like glass
without a scratch or powder of snow
before the news reaches the village
and the loch bears the weight of a crowd

seeing old McGarry swing his scythe
through the high daisies and long summer grass
observing him pause to sharpen his blade
on the slope where six months past
we had dived on a sledge at break-neck speed

picking wild strawberries in the brambles
beside the path that runs near the burn
or guddling for small fish
with bare hands under boulders
wading across in our wellington boots

feeding the fantail pigeons with grain
by the wooden summer house
and the statue of Cupid
a chubby boy with nothing on
who carries in his hand a bunch of grapes

collecting frog spawn with a milk bottle
from the shallow pool near the piggery
so that tadpoles can share the tank in the nursery
with goldfish and cannibal newts

riding Ginger the fat gypsy pony
who trod on Miss Meedwell’s toe
trotting lazily up the road
and cantering back to graze in the paddock

approaching the Crags by the tinkers’ encampment
and the fields of Middleton Farm
to the reservoirs ringed with lights in the black-out
as a decoy for the bombers bombing the docks

exploring the grounds of Overtoun Hospital
notices on the lawn requesting silence
to the lake with the Japanese pavilion
and the bridge that spans a deep ravine

playing with toy cowboys and Indians
in the sandpit beneath the almond tree
hunting at Easter for chocolate eggs
in the cracks of the rock garden wall

unpacking the tinsel and shining globes
preserved with great care year after year
for the adornment of a tall Christmas tree
placed in a barrel beside its own reflexion

lighting each candle with a glowing taper
till the room was bathed in a warm natural light
then my father would walk to the gramophone
and the hush would be broken by “Silent Night”

returning in dreams to visit the house
and passing the woodshed where the kittens were born
the front porch is locked and I open the back door
the rooms look larger and paintings lie on the floor