The pipes sound, wailing and skirling,
by Billy Wright
Heather clad glens come into view,
Snowy peaks dot the horizon.
A lone voice breaks into song,
In the ancient Gaelic tongue,
The notes rising and falling.
A frantic drummer takes up the beat.
Organ and guitars joining in,
Music rising to a crescendo.
The martial tunes take me back,
To olden days in colder climes,
Childhood days remembered fondly.
Transported to my native land,
The bass beat throbbing through my bones.
I stand transfixed in wonder.
Sentimentality running wild,
The heart rules and the head follows,
Reality is not an option.
The songs of our forefathers,
Given a modern twist,
They still excite the blood.