The Ride

One wind-vane pine is pointed toward north
As the wind picks up, then pushes me forth.
The thunderheads looming, like roustabout youths,
Are sending a message on whitehorses' hooves.

Racing the whitehorses all in the rush,
Their cresting and foaming, are boot-trampled slush.
For I am a runner on a sled running wild,
As the scotch guard whisper and laugh at the child.

Who has tempered these islands like steel?
Withstanding the ice age and city-honed heels,
Pewter rock-faces like spatter on beams
Are always attracting the dreamers of dreams.

Slivers of spray arc forward of bow
To crash in the shearline cast by the prow.
The cut-water, seeking to virtually fly,
Is porpoising wave-troughs and knifing to sky.

Ho! To the spirit the Call is replied,
Freeing to water the manfish inside.
Soul, song and solace in one span of space
Have leaped from within to the fore of a race.

COPYRIGHT DAVE MARTIN