Breakwater Troops

Assuming you read my first post and have decided to continue on with me, i thank you.

I want to share with you one of the first poems i wrote. Now in the words of EVERY Northern Irish politition "Let me be very clear" At school i HATED poetry, in some ways i kind of still do, mostly pretentious snob poets that belittle everything that isn't Yeats. I have come over time to appreciate the artistry and talent it takes to create a world in a a story in only a few simple stanzas. Amazing!

This one was based on an idea i have had since i was a child. sitting int he back seat of my dad's car as we drove down to Portavogie on a Sunday afternoon to visit family and have Sunday lunch. we always took the coastal route, running parallel to the Irish sea. On the way one particular Sunday i remember the tide was coming in rapidly, crashing over the walls on the road and racing up the beach. I spotted what i was convinced were three boys standing in a line, be washed away into the foaming white water. It have me chills, terrified me so much i was scared to say anything as we drove, i just watched, wide eyed in silence, scouring the coastline to see if the boys came back up for air. 

Every now and then, behind a large swell i would see two or three black heads pop up then disappear with the retreating tide. 

Now i realise they were groins, and I pass them at least one a week now on my way to work. 

This poem i feel embodies my childish wonder with the possibility of another world, within our own that very few are aware of! 

Enjoy.

Breakwater troops

Rising tide swallows the standing soldiers,

At attention they wait for the rushing swells,

With Armour of weed from the depths of the sea,

Unmoved in their solitary defense.

Giving marker to the sailors who pass through their ranks,

Showing the depths of the enemy that is the liquid field,

When tide is low uniformed they patrol without step,

Night and day these heroes work without thanks or fame.

From high or low tide they mark the charge,

White horses galloping to face them in a fray of mist,

Descending deeper into the ranks and throng of brine,

Known to none and seen by no eyes, all but mine.

On the dune of sand we sit, legs hanging bare footed above the shingle,

To the soldiers I point, calling to them to retreat,

My brother sits still, dismayed at my antics and dement,

He sees stumps and logs, simple markers for the tide.

From a child my eyes have seen a magic hidden,

Lost on the confides of reality.

Where waves crash I see horses race to the shore,

In the blowing gales I see the trees dance to the music in their leaves.

Scattered around this green island are these warriors on watch,

like the red guards, men of ancient and old they protect us,

each time I pass I thank them, a simple bow and wink,

then turn their heads to acknowledge me with silent gratitude.

To their ranks, I was invited by a legionnaire upmost,

Spring evening, gazing to the horizon on guard of my own,

My family I will make proud, their boy a breakwater warrior,

I wade deep in the early hours of the morning, in preparation for the battle.

Before the world wakes the battle had begun,

Firm I stood my ground, feed planted and buried in the sand,

Arms tight to my side, chest up and outward,

By breath held as the charge went overhead.

Without movement, I battled the tide, undertow heaving and dragging,

My head thick with dread but my heart endured, strong in the ranks,

I was a breakwater, with lungs full of the Irish sea,

The battle overhead now, the cheers of my comrades eased me into the dark victory.

C.Mahood