Beach Ride

Beach Ride
 
 
(Throughout: sound recorded from horse galloping on sand; sea and birds)
 
As a prayer t’ the wund,
As the dew t’ the dawn,
As the day tae it’s end,
As the prick a the thorn;                                                                              
 
As the bend a the tide,                     Spindrift,
As the fresh a the born,                    And the wind’s drum –
As the airt a the wund,                     Music, old
As the prick a the thorn;                   As wonder and longing;
 
                                           
As the fresh a the born,                                                                                                                                   Fly, foam.
As the range a the sea,                                                                                                                                    Flow, sea.
As the bend a the tide,                                                                                                                               Sweep, wind.      
As the spuggie maa’n flee.                                                                                                                           Foam, flee.
    
                                                               Give the horses their heads now:         (horse snorts)                 Fly, foam.                         
                                                               Let them fly,                                                                                       Flow, sea. 
                                                               Foam flecks blown                                                                       Sweep, wind.                  
                                                               From that first, lost sea;                                                                 Foam, flee.
 
                                           
As the bend a the tide,                      Spindrift,
As the fresh a the born,                     And the wind’s drum –
As the airt a the wund,                      Music, old
As the prick a the thorn;                    As wonder and longing;
                                         
As the fresh a the born,                                                                                                                                   Fly, foam.
As the range a the sea,                                                                                                                                    Flow, sea.
As the bend a the tide,                                                                                                                               Sweep, wind.      
As the spuggie maa’n flee.                                                                                                                           Foam, flee.
                              
                                                                Waves, hooves,                                                                              Lash, wind.
                                                                And a cave-fire story,                                                                   Tear, mane.                                         
                                                                River of sand                                                                                Hoof, nostril,
                                                                Flowing under us, tell                                                                  Flare, flame.
 
                                                                How they stream headlong,                                                           Fly, foam.
                                                                The minutes, the dear-ones,                                                          Flow, sea.         
                                                                Love to its end,                                                                            Sweep, wind.                  
                                                                Time to its stillness.                                                                       Foam, flee.                                                               

unpublished Radio poem, first broadcast in Journeys, BBC Radio 4, National Poetry Day, 2001, © Katrina Porteous 2001, used by permission of the author.

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1If My Train Will come

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3Charlie Douglas

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9From Five Sea Songs: II

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