The 3 Arches of the Old Spey Bridge A baby plopped on a riverbank beach Lupins and picnic voices all around me, The youngest and plumpest Beneath the small arch. Engrossed with red plastic bucket and spade Fingertips numb with gravely sand My mouth suddenly scrubbed clean My eyes try to keep up with my running brothers. Tiny trout tiddlers dart about Swirling and shifting this way and that In the calm pool At the middle arch. Deep amber ribbed sand with mika sparkling. Mine green, my school pal’s blue Our nets on long bamboo canes Bend as they glide to catch the school. In late summer level I hop across the landlocked stepping stones Oddly laid bare atop the cobbled riverbed To the big arch. The other teenagers brave a leap from the bridge But I just glide into warmer shallows Where the skins of countless Mayfly Crust upon stony shelves. HGN, 2023

OLD MAN DUNSHEA Hamish Napier, 4th August 2020 Two lads on their bikes Me and Sam My friend from up the road We own this bit - We are this bit! Freewheeling between The long line of landrovers Parked all along the verges By the Old Spey Bridge. Dozens of fishermen here again today. Stationed along the river All waders and wellies, Hats and hand-tied flies, Rubber and rods. Every so often You catch the buzzing quack, Of a reel winding in. And great swishes As they Spey cast this way and that. Rolling out the red line Across the surface tension Of the relentless river. Perched on our push bikes 
 Up at McLeod’s corner The summer evening birdsong Gives way to a distant drilling drone A motorbike - We look to the road end. Where emerges the unmistakable silhouette Of Old Man Dunshea On his scooter. A red and white vintage Vespa The engine: a tamed chain saw With rattling sputters His open-face helmet Encloses a kindly moustache. Then, his signature thumbs-up. We return it eagerly. He is forever clad in green rubber and Barbour Save for a bulky life jacket And fingerless gloves
. Jutting out behind him Is the last few feet of his spinning rod With a bright ribbon Dancing at the end. A silvered minnow catches the setting sun. 
 A pensioner with reels on wheels. By the end of the summer We are promoted to a wink. And maybe Speybridge is his bit too. In September my mother mentions “Oh, so sad – Old Man Dunshea died the other day.” A heart attack they say, While fishing.” What...no! We’d never see him again. Tears appearing. Overreaction. A hug on the doorstep.
 My outburst caught her by surprise. We didn’t really know him as such. “Oh come now dearie. People die, that’s just all part of life. At least he died doing what he loved best.” They scatter his ashes on the Spey At the top of the long pool Where the river runs slowest As was his request. The minister stands before the gathered on the riverbank The drone of the eulogy Soothes the stillness of the gathered. His arm extends over the sombre black flow Slowly but surely He releases a thin steady sprinkle of ash Until all that remains of Dunshee Is an impossibly fine dust cloud Settling on the surface Slowly sinking. Something stirs. More than the current. Then again, a wee ripple. Not raindrops. Good God! A flick of a wee tail - Another flash of silver Darts and bubbles. Gasp and exclamations. The murmurings of the mourners Swell to a panic. The minister pulls back from the edge And grasping the urn to his chest, Mutters something skyward. He calms the crowd With outstretched arms. The pool settles again As quickly as it was disturbed. The ceremony resumes. There was a quiet retribution in it As Old Man Dunshea Came gliding by One last time On his way from the town to the afterlife. To repay his due. Hamish Napier, 4th August 2020 _________________________________________________

RIVERBED Share my skin My breath Rest your brow In the jawbone of my kin. Troubles washed away. Our bedrock bodies, Smoothed and magnified By the glacial pool. Gather my limbs And pull my world over to yours. HGN