Take islands, Coney or Inis Mór. Take ditches, moats, the moot A cursory few stones, with or without The fortress families erect On beaches with deckchairs.
Aran in late summer, small kids Diving off the pier, a race To the blue boat anchored out And laughter among the cousins. This Looking back will be the death of us.
They say it’s all about the taking part. If it is, all we could give were wings, Salt crystals on skin, a boat. There is regret, and celebration That for a while, we were a part of it.
There are shores, with lone figures Looking west. The strand Wiped clean, one wind-scrubbed man Knotted, lumpen. Facing seaward, Empty as the moon.
Allow him, hovering, invisible As a shower of particles, that angel Not hammered from rag and bone Desperation but cut from dark matter That causes light to curve, the slight
Refraction of the human heart – Not much, but enough to put Einstein’s Theory tearing across the world A telegram from the other side. ‘Lights’ it read ‘all askew in the heavens.’