Waking At Warbeth
Get up
Up out of your comfortable graves
Kick off the quiet quilt of kirkyard clay
Up
And shake the sleep-salt from your sockets
Rise up
And rattle your red bones
Unwind your shrouds for ribbons
Cross country track and field
The pistol is poised skyward
The hare has leapt the trap
Javelins lance gold from sky to silver sea
And the rising tide
Is roaring like a crowd.