tackle wet wire and rope
washed by the sea
“in italics” she said waving
by the lighthouse shadow
silent sand wet beneath her feet

it was the morning
of a rainy bank holiday
docking red engines
with slow fire

the day had no particular meaning
there are no face you haven’t seen
just a pale October sun
leading you on

generations have walked
the steep streets of Wexford
where green hills and trees
leak into the hardened skin
of the omniscient I
folding day
like a windswept sheet

night’s bright necklace of cars
roll the tarmac of lovers
into men of mud
it’s the bank holiday
shifting it’s freed limbs
looking for a bright space
pinned to the soft tissue floor

I saw a proud general
on an elephant in the sky
riding in memory of a green room
and a green heart
the wings of a great bird
melted into the sea

signs tickets trees
hills clouds and ducks
disappear and die
in a different story
with a similar ending

ancient starry crematoriums
blast atomic time
rivers and church bells
a coin on a tongue
an anchor chain
rattling into the water