INISHBOFIN

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Heron’s eye like a periscope between rocks

gleans the heave of the gathering swell.

Whispers of cloud grow like earrings for the moon

as it commands the tide from north and south

to kiss the peninsula into an island.

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Sand rows are sculpted to grain perfection

celebrating the day’s unique wind.

Sleepy rock pools fill to greet strangers;

in this amphitheatre of erosion

the waltz of stones and water can never end.

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They are the only couple on the sea floor

slurping and sluicing into one another

in the oldest love story of all.

The heron winks as if to say

they’re at it again, lowers his head,

vanishes.