Sunday morning Seapoint The tide was out mud flats laid bare a few rocks strewn here and there ignominiously covered in nondescript seaweed the sea lifeless. Round the corner on the West Pier boats were still sleeping in their moorings the sea gentle. Behind me over Stepaside three rock mountain misty full of day promise climbs, picnics, the Himalayas. On the way back I thought I have no grand poem about place only mundane things. Looking down I saw a clump of green leaves with yellow ragwort thriving out of the concrete path by the waters edge. A surge of music rose like joy in my heart the sea was faster now the boats mostly blue rocking and tilting. I thought I have great hatred in my heart for all who abuse babies. My back was stiff and unyielding. In Salthill an orange poppy and pink-rose valerian had found their place inside the sea wall. Above the Georgian houses looked down over the train lines, the wall, square with generous windows. Music ran continuously down my sides. Outside I heard a music fragment playing in the absolute quiet rhythm steady sweet up and down slightly with the waves mud disappearing under the incoming May-flower tide.