The sun light danced a slow waltz
On the waters of Inniscrone,
The sound of the surf against the shore,
Like the tremendous ruffle of a dress hem,
Tremulous wave of white linen,
In the motion
And the sway.
The winds dissecting the bursts of rain,
Into
Intense buffets,
And slow withdrawals.
Silence seated itself on an old oak
Creaking chair,
In the corner of a destitute alley,
Rocking back and forth while observing
The sun through the rain,
Which ran over us like those tinkling bells,
All cluttered and connected,
The sound of rebounding droplets,
Ringing a continuous chorus.
Did we sit too,
That evening.
Watching that elderly man with his whistle walk,
As he bounded down the beach
All vigour and defiance before the storm.
Or did we sleep,
And wake to find the anger subsided,
The pale moonlight languishing on the backs,
Of barnacle“ ridden sea vessels.
Solitude cackled from behind
Empty windows,
And filled the void of vacant houses,
There was not one soul for quiet company,
Even you faded like the lustre from that brass eyeglass,
The one that sits oxidising in the backroom.
I was there to see out the silence,
As it carried its natural course cross the placid fields,
Gentle lavender scented strolls dousing with their incense,
Those frigid thoughts which swim beneath.
The old man by now,
Rolling in the waves,
And my soul passing all its days,
Casting stones into small sea pools.
Talking desperately to the crabs beneath
Inquiring where to next?
How does one begin,
Or make meaningful one’s moment,
I am a Roman path builder
Setting my cement, fitting my slabs.
But the road must wind over distant mountains,
And each inch is set by hand.