Forest of Birse
Paddling in the cold peaty water, the river stole his left jelly shoe and my right flip-flop.
He uses the slimy wooden weir as a slide.
She doesn’t like the moss and pine needles touching her tiny toes. She’s hot and sad today.
He wades out to a grassy island to share his picnic.
I came here thirty or more years ago, with my mum and dad.
The memory brought me back, with my own babies, to play in the pools and on the rocks of the Feugh.
You can’t make a memory. Memories make themselves.