I Saw You By The Clyde Poem by Byepolar Bayer

I met Scott Walker walking by the river,
his Golden Retriever like a warm waterfall
amongst the trees and the winterblown grass;
and I was whistling Angels of Ashes -
discordant, untrammelled, in low, slow mist
creeping between the cold deeps of grey water
and the saturated wishes written
on the faded leaves still holding,
loyal and fast, to a season we’ve lost.

And we stopped mundanely, compulsively,
and talked of venom and of gentleness;
and I couldn’t help but say that we’d lost ours.
We used to walk and he would race
around and across, nose deep into spring,
into ancient commitments
and thrill, like freedom should be,
through the nettles and budding foxgloves,
trailing his infectious atmosphere
through all the woods, and all the lochs
and all along the ragged ocean’s edge.
And I couldn’t help but see him
in that bounding song
that old repeating rhythm
on a riverbank we never shared.

And his eyes were bloodshot from the cold
and he listened as if he lived it (and he would in time) :
his smile was honest, on a knife edge like De Niro’s,
but he was gone before I realised,
through knee-high mist and haggard trees
with that blonde happiness unleashed
like random star trails darting wild,
along another riverside.