One wing strut is broken
A mend that never quite fitted
After my arms chandelled a
Wee lad’s instant chair-o-plane.
I sit between, left hand spiking
A broadsheet to draw the fire,
Right hand passing codes
To light up other worlds.
Sometimes the old wooden stool
Polices a sideways perimeter
Against dog settee sneak attacks,
When the house and he fall quiet.
‘Trailing shock’ (manipulated shadowgraph: supersonic bullet)
An impolite smattering of applause
Marks Barry Buddon’s most recent rehearsal.
So many rounds rapid sound surprisingly
Rounded. A lustily ripping rolling wave.
The unseen squad fires and resounds,
Oddly as a remembered sail spilling wind,
But cutting it far too close now,
We’re almost caught in irons.
Under the Tay’s sequinned shift,
Two hundred summer dolphins
Whistle ultrasonic, torpedoing
Scaled echoes for three squares.
While above the armoured submarine jetsam
Stashed in Tentsmuir’s sands,
Tales tell on a spittal-white sling of sail.
Time to come about.