Synthesis of flatness and gems, toilet locked against winter
and vagrants, I guess, and the crows (one at first) as we ate picnic
ham and spiced beef sandwiches, Tayto crisps and fizzy sodas.
The bird signaled for his buddies. Alarmed by croaking vocals,
we scrammed as a gang of beaks became bleak turrets.
Doxxed on the rocks, we scurried to the scalloped, foamy edge
of earring shells and driftwood, my beachcomber
bent over. So weird to watch us age. To feel thoughts
change. We drove on. The ginger kitten
who’d stood on our boots by the beehive huts was a highlight.
Muscular and adamant, we bet he communed all day
with fairies on the cliffs. A farmer fed his leaping dogs
and said he’d never been to the Blaskets, though boats zoomed past
every hour. Ugh, that sucked to hear. I’m excited, I’d said
that morning, tying my laces, and I’m never excited. Pat’d asked,
Maybe think about why that is? Nah, I’d rather imagine
snow soon touching the sea’s luxury, melting like a mother
in a Jacuzzi, finally happy. Or the new lamb held for two euros,
her older brother braying. Sweet boy, I hear you. She’s yours.