Ten years old; misting, happy days;
the smell of well-fired rolls,
thick, sweet orange juice and bowls
of porridge cooling on the window sill.
Boats and gulls coming in, going out,
or us, messing about at Newhaven.
Didn’t talk a lot, just tried to walk
round bits of Edinburgh.
Carefree days, two boys alone.
No plans to follow today or tomorrow.
Botanical Gardens, Ferry Road,
Granton Pier, when boats unload.
We didn’t talk a lot, just walked a lot
round bits of Edinburgh and that nearby pier
with boats and gulls coming in, going out;
or me and Alastair just messing about.
I worried once when Mr Crombie
dived off that pier in gath’ring fog
then disappeared in the filthy brine
like a jobbing Airedale dog.
My first real panic; the dirty trawlers,
the monied men in shirts and collars;
The start, stop, stutter of firing boats,
the silent bobbing of mooring floats.
Surely suicide was not for him!
Was I to know he came for a swim
every day? But where was he now?
Stuck under the bow of some dirty boat?
He reappeared. I almost cried
and tried to show I didn’t care.
He dried his hair; we went to play
on the harbour wall that day.