The Race

Solo to leeward,
A following sea.
Cresting and cruising
The waves race aglee.

Whispering murmers
the breakers they slide,
Laughing at kayak,
Who shoulders and glides.

This is possession.
This is the mood.
Six single-seaters
All in a brood.

Windward or leeward,
The challenge gives rise
To spray on the foredeck,
The gleam in our eyes.

This, my tobogan,
Runs true as a sleigh.
Each crest is a cliff-top,
With naught to belay.

Beckons the starlight.
Beckons the moon.
The water's a-shimmering,
A silver dubloon.

Onto the beach-head
The six of us fall,
Like Ospreys and Eagles,
We've weathered the Call.

Now I can hear
Another wild voice.
It calls on the down-beat
And gives us a choice:

Stay by the beach-head...
Or just to be torn,
Climb to the highlands
Where rivers are born.

COPYRIGHT DAVE MARTIN