Runrig Poem by Bill Wright

The pipes sound, wailing and skirling,
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.