Yesterday a German doctor ran with me,
Young, bearded, eyes bright, preparing
Himself to run the Berlin marathon, and wearing
T shirt and shorts, and round his waist the three
Small plastic bottles of refreshing water
That he felt necessary to replace
The sweat that he exuded from the effort
Of conveying his lanky structure from place to place.
I need no water, prefer to drink a glass
Or two before I set off, and for comfort
Eat a slice or two of bread and apricot
Jam, spread with butter, maybe marmalade
Instead of jam - they don't look too dissimilar
(Rather like white spirit and lemonade,
An orang-utan and the late Heinrich Himmler,
Though these are opposites, a daft comparison
But I feel good despite having no Bioflow on).
We set off by the Lade Braes; everything underfoot
Was soaking, mud was everywhere, each root
That undermined the grass prevented slipping,
The same roots that normally cause tripping.
We talked a lot - of Triumph and Disaster,
About his views of whether the past master
Of German politics, Herr Kohl, had really had it
And to which party should accrue the credit
Or blame for helping unity along. I thought Kohl good
Because no bloodshed had occurred, but crude
In his wild promises that even I
Could not believe, that the economy
Within five years would soar to dizzy height
And unemployment would be put to flight.
Conversing thus, stopping each fifteen minutes
Or so to take a photograph for Martin
So that he'd have a souvenir on parting -
I had a free camera with film still in it -
We climbed and slid our way up Lumbo Den
Through raspberry canes left over from days when
The gardens of Mount Melville House extended
Down to the burn. Now that these days are ended
And the golf course is spread across the hill,
Constantly damp, we run here still
Across the fairway and into the rough
With its fine seedheads of the tough
Fescues and bents that Peter Thomson sowed,
And labour up the stony tractor road
Towards Denhead, Drumcarro on our run,
Its radio antenna blinking in the sun.
Left towards Cameron, up 'Shitty Path'
(So called because even if you didn't need a bath
Before you got there you would need one after.)
The name caused a small amount of laughter
As we squelched southwards. An abandoned car,
Rusting towards oblivion in the ditch,
Causes me to think of others which
Have been left lying to fall apart and lie
Rusting reproachfully underneath the sky.
In one case an Austin A35 van
Lies at the Eden estuary under the sand -
I used to watch it gradually disappear
Beneath the surface, inch by inch, year by year.
At Cameron reservoir, where geese descend
Heading for Africa till winter's end
Or to the Med., to spend the cold season there
Instead of way up north, where fields are bare,
We pause to gaze across the brim full tank
With stone-built edges; the Council from the bank
(The double metaphor) draws out deposits
Of water for our taps and water closets:
Water to drink, water to wash yourself,
Water for clothes, for dishes, all the pelf
That we've accumulated needing to be washed.
When I get home, I think I'll get half-sloshed
On good Czech beer (Tesco has its own brand),
But for the moment the pair of us just stand
Against the gate at the end of the line
Of well-cut grass and specimen Scots pine.
I took my daughter here when she was three;
Feeding a friendly horse, up to its knee
Or fetlock or hock or whatever the term may be.
Back down the road - it's three o'clock or so
And if we keep the pace extremely slow
As we have up to now (still feeling frisky
But speeding up's no good for Martin - risky
To accelerate downhill unless it's smooth;
He twisted his knee when he once hit a groove
On the Göttinger Hain, about a year ago.
We stop twice more, once at the Feddinch summit
To photograph the town from outside the limit
And once again before the caravan site,
Where, to avoid the southern sun
We chose to simulate an uphill run
Close in beside the brambles and the hedge;
Then, turning northwards, keeping to the edge
We let ourselves be carried down the hill,
Cruising like birds of prey before the kill
But in this case we did not plunge and swoop
To catch the rabbits, chose instead to trot,
Not thoroughbreds, but carthorses - a job lot
Hardly worth watching, but enjoying the same
Quiet satisfaction as a famous name.
