The cliff top tower stands grey as a threat, its history
with salt-bleached timbers and rusted nails.
Walk a path to Hell’s Hole, a deep cleft of rock,
the earth into an ocean, the blue of a sea glass nugget;
tumbled by a century of storms.
sea foam fool, white and cold as snow;
thief of ships and men.
of scattered U-boats rest with barnacled wrecks of liners.
Anemones dance on prows, tumble through crumbling railings
kelp and fronds. Auroras streak winter nights
where balletic light is sacred as prayer.
EIRE, a meticulous arrangement of white stones,
neutrality on stubbled ground. Grass tufts thatch the land, thread
burnt umber and cadmium specks, only thrift
blooms from rock fissures, blossoms all summer long.
dandelion clocks, each track’s a well worn promise
and as spindrift salts my skin, cloaks my face in a grainy film,
to return to this hostile place with its stinging winds
tethered to memory, take a last walk around this precipice
white Atlantic spume, its keening ringing in my ears.
Lorraine Carey’s poems are widely published in Poetry Ireland Review, Magma, Panoply, Gyroscope Review, Orbis, Prole, Rust+Moth, One, The High Window, The Stony Thursday Book and The Honest Ulsterman, among others. A Pushcart nominee, she has work forthcoming in Allium and Softblow. Originally from Donegal, she now lives in Kerry.