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.