And then there were the poems
about the barnacles and the way
they fit together with the beach.
How the wings and pale white
moon were both on field of pink
and blue and how the sound of
waves talked with their bird sound.
There on the sand we were a
delicate fog forming we spoke
of civilization, of a king who refused
to be a king and so then
We need only the beach, yes, but
the king, he draws the maps,
the king makes the rules,
we cannot follow the tide
forever, we will meet a boy
selling candy, we will find a quid
in our inside pocket,
we will pay the boy, bless
This kind of talk continued
for sometime, until it was almost dark
and we arrived back at the car,
which maybe wouldn’t start,
but did, a relief, and a disappointment
with god, not the one Columbkille brought,
but the one who was here before.
who we left in the light on the surf smelling of seawood,
soaking in sun on the long black
slanted stone at low tide
slithering upon the sand
according to old magic,
Ben Bulben behind
aching for his ocean breath.
And so we ferried our sense of things
into the car, into the house,
and set them on the dinner table
beside the candle
and the shell.
We threw something together
and ate there
beside the shore.