The wind runs in ripples along Carlingford Lough, a shadow cast by a flock of invisible birds. On the shore, strands of kelp wave and flip in the briny breeze, like the fat brown eels of my rock pool childhood.
For a second, I hear the excited cries of my brothers and sisters and catch a glimpse of my smiling father, leaning over the beach wall to call us for lunch; I hug myself at the memory before it is bundled up and stolen by the breeze
precious stones ...
my tears saltier
than all the sea air
Marion Clarke