I am sat
In a tight picnic circle
Laid on the grey sand
I am a crusted seashell,
I am the limpets which cling to my skin
Like a sunken chest
The waves and sea gulls call
For each other and the cold
In the distance. The swimmers. The Irish
Sea and the Irish cold
Whistling,
The sea and the clouds
You are the froth
Flowing through my lungs like a white
Feather fallen from the sky
Silent
And dry
The rock's green hair swaying
The wind strikes the eye
Like a splash
And decays with
The grace of a coffin
For me the reeds have born their fruit
They stab the naked
Skin, you are still
Sleeping on your side
In the tent
You are still beautiful
Within, soon the ***** will unfold
And we shall embrace
The sea and her sons