Eat your heart out McGonagall

I was down in Jedburgh a couple of days ago for the sad, but rather uplifting occasion of my much loved Aunt Ina's funeral. She was laid to rest at the town cemetery, a beautiful spot, just behind the castle and overlooking the River Jed. She lies within a few feet of my dad and about half a dozen relatives and close to many of her friends.

When I visited my dad's grave I was reminded yet again how much he loved this Border countryside and particularly the beautiful Jed valley, where he liked to walk and where he taught me how to cast a fly and helped me catch my first trout.

Just before he was taken ill I was overtaken by a sudden and totally illogical urge to record the land around the town in verse. Illogical because I'd never written poetry before and had no idea whether I could. By the time I finished the first, he'd already passed away and I've always regretted not having the  opportunity to read it to him. I think he would have liked it, because every name would have held memories for him, but he'd probably have laughed and said it was rubbish.

Much of it is in local Borders dialect you may find indecipherable, and some of it doesn't rhyme, but I think it captures the essence of the place and it's probably the only poem I'll ever write; so here it is.

JED WATER

Fair Jed your sylvan water flows,

o’er peat and stone

from whence you rose.

Neath Millmoor Rig and Weasel Hill,

 where roe deer stoop

 to drink their fill,

past Soothdean’s fort 

and Soothdean’s mill,

a bubbling, tumbling Border rill.

A flash of blue,

nae, turquoise, bright,

shy kingfisher is caught in flight;

in shallow pools,

the salmon writhe,

a frantic prelude

to new life.

Through forest glades,

past peel and tower,

in valley broad you

feel your power,

storm fed by every

spring and burn, 

men fear the day

your mood will turn.

By sheep filled pastures

lords hold dear

 that once played host

 to sword and spear,

where reivers camped

and warden trod,

 fore bluid was shed 

on Redeswire’s sod.

Camptoon awaits,

and Mossburnford, 

close by once rode

that fatal lord

o’ Linthaughlee

whae, faithful to 

his king’s last plea, 

took heart and soul

and set baith free.

Grey Ferniehurst

hame o’ the Kerrs,

the crumbling rocks 

of mighty scaurs

Tree shrouded pools

where otters play, 

and fairy bowers

where lovers lay;

 you hae them a’.

At Tammy White’s,

 the bairns still swim

and leap frae Fourth Brig at a whim.

Then on to Jethart’s

noble lie, 

whence oft was cast an errant fly. 

Three caulds you’ll cross,

when you reach there - 

Allars, Glebe and 

Anna fair.

And David’s Abbey’s

muckle wa’s,

where black clad monks

once walked the ha’s, 

til Henry’s knights in a’

their splendour left 

their mark in flame and horror.

Past Mary’s Hoose 

and mills now lost

to Riverside

and Jammie Scott’s.

Neath Shoogly Brig

your waters flow,

through gentle glides

they now will go 

until they reach that sacred spot, 

where fair Jed ends,

two rivers marry

and on its way

the Teviot carries

your essence to the sea.

Doug Jackson 2010

The Abbey at Jedburgh, with the river in the foreground