Claddagh Solstice

A hooker docked
in the basin sways
in the wake of wild swans
who nibble from the red
gloved hand of a tourist.

A watercolour sky,
streaked and spiked
with Monet’s light, frames
the locals lifting lobster
pots talking simple talk-
this Claddagh summer solstice

In the distance, a silver bladed
windmill swirls as we amble
past a field of lemon yellow flowers-
‘cattle poisoning weeds’, you say
A granite stone, sun soaked, shapes
a warmer seat than slate.

talking intensely, endlessly-
the conversation hovers;
we tiptoe beyond comfy boundaries
knowing we’ve tapped a fissure
in this fragile eggshell of intimacy.
Overhead a giant gull soars
racing the cormorant to the sea.



by Theresa Daly

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