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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.

I can 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.

I can 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.




 Latou                                                                               1996

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