The Space…

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.

by Gabi