Poetry from The Literary Review


The Sea at Dun Laoghaire

I knew the stone of you,
your walls, your towers,
the graphite line of your piers
cutting the water,
your three tall spires
watching for the boat
that came and left every day,
great chains round bollards
holding her steady
as the men got off,
coming home on leave
from England and the war.
My father was one of them.


And I knew the jade of you
on a fair day when he walked
with me on the sand, big boots
covering small footpools,
scuds of cloud showing wind enough
for yachts to lace past Howth,
and the slish and the slide of you
were the soft of his voice
on a night when you were moonmilk,
the rocks black hands in your lap,
as he took my hand
and promised to come back.