The ferry to the islands cleft the waves.
The holy water swept in from the Atlantic
Across the edges of the bay. A gale
Intertwined our hair and grains of salt
Filled the lines of years. A hand
Covered a hand. Stacks of peat rose
In our heads. Like a pig being
Stuck or crumbling black pudding on
Our plates, steaming amidst apples and
Autumn. But isn't it spring, you said and
Hummed an old tune in my ear. We stared
At the proud waters of the luminescent sea.
Sailor's legs felt for the quay. A
Lame duck waddled from the ship. A near-
Dead man was lying on the quay. Drunk, dropped
Out of his frame, tongue still grey with whiskey,
Erosion of Jameson on the lips. Today this is
Our island, you said and pulled me away from
Him. Salt rain corroded the houses. There
Were no trees to carve one's name in.
Grey the skies, grey the water. No hangover
Lurking here. We gazed across the forgotten
Islands, where stone rules over the dead
Unintelligibly, and the day contracted.
Shivering we covered ourselves in blankets.
The horse's hoofs clacked steadily,
As if the roads were soft paths, every
Step reversible. Seals were swimming
Towards the horizon. Potatoes lay like
Eggs in the scanty peat. On your lips
I tasted the salt that encrusts stone,
And then you looked at me, looked back
Through my eyes. This is the end of a world,
You said, where old can never age. Where
Time is silence in an urn filled with ashes. Aran,
Dream with the smell of horse blankets.
