SONG OF THE CLYDE
Through the mists
of childhood memory, over forty years ago,
I can see the light-beam sweeping as the foghorn echoes low.
It’s a spectral song to soothe me, it’s a ghostly lullaby
As I lie and watch the ceiling, as I see the daylight die.
hear the paddle steamers as they sail across the Firth ,
It’s a sound I’ll always link with this most special place on earth;
The deep churning of the engine and the swishing of the wake,
Or the throbbing of the diesel only “Talisman” could make.
hear the seagulls crying on their swooping, banking turns
As they squabble over titbits on the shore among the stones.
I have kept a treasured pebble that was polished by the tide -
It has also felt the rhythm of the music of the Clyde.