Down the Burn

I can see now

there was no cliff at all

only a stony hill

that wasn’t that big,

No roaring river,

Just a wee burn

that wasn’t deep at all,

with swirling grey foam

that rolled over

a few dozen rocks and flags.

But I know

there was a time

when it was

an awful dangerous cliff,

full of tall swaying trees

where Mohawk Indians

with frightening hair

watched us play.

I know when darkness came

they sailed down rapids and waterfalls

into

in their canoes.

But those bare-chested Indians

knew nothing

about the hidey-holey trees

that saved us

and a dark, deep cave

where William Wallace

hid for years and years

when somebody in history

was out

to get him.