A Galloway Burn in June

Brown burn water dropping

Between the grey stones,

The lapse and the murmur,

The bright overtones

Of cuckoo and curlew

And faraway trill

Of a lark; great blue shadows

Stride over the hill:

Breeze and bird-call are blended

With murmur of bees;

Sun and wind stroke the grasses

And finger the trees.

Is it sunlight or greenlight?

This shimmer of leaves;

Is it seeing or dreaming,

The dapple that weaves

Across the brown water

That murmurs and spills

Through the grey stones forever

Among the green hill?

D.M.P. ©