My first recollection of the sea
was not the water but the sky.

How could it be that if I could
walk the waves I'd reach the clouds.

It was an illusion of which I had
no idea how to explain or even ask.

And why, if it was tilted towards
the coast, did the surf spill in?

There was a lot about the ocean that
left me wondering and then the beach.

Where was it, and why did we have to
drive so far in a Morris Minor to see it?

Or why did my father bring a shovel
and three bags to bring home the sand?

We had a grainy garden which the snails
avoided because of the saline grit.

'Good for the aeration of the soil,' he told
our neighbour, who was leaning on the fence.

When it rained heavily for days on end we
had puddles, small lakes and tiny Atlantics.

I don't ever recall going back. The Morris
Minor rusted; they blamed the sea for it.

It became a chicken house, they entered by
the boot floor that the stolen sand had rotted.

OIK 603 was the license number, it was green
with orange indicator wings on the door posts.

There were six of us, all as pale as the white
chevron in the centre of the Irish Tricolour.