By Daniel Whelan
How half cut was thy father,
ear lipped and snifter snout,
when he heard the word
of a straight cure
that cleared his mind
before his reddened face?
So, that now, the morning night
gleams like wet coal
as you place a milk-white foot
upon a foot beaten path.
Long left alone
but for the wraithen curlew calling
from the mouthing waves;
its scythe of song
reaping hope for a tune,
whetting ill-omen
on the rock, slick, slime, cold grey
Dublin Bay, and Donabate.
You run as though your death is late
as water waves and waves of wind
play you hollow on this hoary coast.
More hollow than human,
more young than old,
yet still, while bending low,
coughing you cough
nature finds fashionable,
underfoot turns to stone.
Long left alone
but for the blade of moon
apprehending your torn gait.
Its sight it says this morning’s fate
as you bless yourself
for the whooping’s cure,
thanking God for his slow sunrise
so you can be sure
to be sure to be sure.
What girl are you to be so marked
upon this coastal stretch?
Told of a hole in the ground
in which to coalesce
a pair of lungs that knew
more pain than laughter.
Is it life or death that you are after?
Is that looming portal
in favour of your father?
Many tried this trick
but died in sin.
Remembered once,
now no longer kith nor kin.
So, the same for you
Erin’s little sister,
singing welcome black solitude;
the look of black sand,
and the sight that seems
the milk white
friend of foam
that says you’ve found
where sea meets land.
Beating blows of bastard wind
against you follow the darkened coast
to where it gets darker;
a receiving mouth of well-cave,
where still meets salt
twice a lunar day
without
failure.
Therein you crawl,
cold bitten, and half dressed,
sent to death
by a hopeful lie
your father thought was wise;
embrace this final tide,
cured while you wait.