“Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes.
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise . . .”
So said Scottish poet Robert Burns in 1791, only 229
years ago, but it seems as though he wrote it yesterday. I could swear he was visiting me on my walk
today. Surely more than two centuries
ago, he must have seen the same things I saw today, else how could he have
written so lovely a verse? And if so,
did he hear my conversation with the young Sun King (whose coronation is not
yet official)? It is a possibility. Perhaps he knew Him well; that is my suspicion. And I am full of suspicions.
“You did it again, did you not?” He asked.
“Yes.”
“Again. Truly?” more
exasperated.
“Yes, again.”
“But why? Why??”
“I don’t know,” I said, “I was afraid. Everything happened so quickly, and the world
turned to ice. Everything died. I kept trying to catch your eye, but you were
looking elsewhere. Again.”
“Yes, I was,” He said, “Yet again.”
“The world froze,” I went on, “And though I tried to hold
on, at some point I left the land of the living—once more—and walked in the
Underworld.”
“Did you not love me?” He asked, pained.
“Of course I did—and do!”
“Then why could you not you believe me? Why could you not wait for me? I told you I would come back!”
“I know,” I faltered.
(You will re-member that it was Nathaniel Hawthorne who said, “We must not always
talk in the marketplace of what happens to us in the forest.” – 1850. But we will not speak of that here.)
So now the King returns to us and life is renewed, and
what am I to do about the forest? This
time I thought I was done for, but once again, spring has returned. Why can I never believe completely? The forget-me-nots bloom yet again,
spectacular as always, and never where I expect them to be. The plain dandelion barges in among their
frailty and carries a strength they will never suspect. But no matter. There is room for all today.
“Here this now,” He said.
“I will always come back for you.
You need never worry. I will
never forget you, not in a thousand years, not in a million years. Each bloom is the most precious bloom in
existence. Each bloom is the only
bloom. Each life is the One life. And you are more precious to me than a
thousand rubies.”
“I know,” I said, “Now I remember.”
“But you will forget again?”
“Yes.”
“Take my gentle reminder, then. Splurge it in the sunset.”
“Already done,” I said.
I continued on my walk for a while, meandering down the
river and following where it led. The Sun
began to slant lower in the sky, already sailing away on His cosmic trip,
sailing into the Underworld. There is no
hurry, though. We shall all be there
presently.
“My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear.
I charge thee, disturb not my slumbering Fair.”
~ Robert Burns,
1791
