WALKING ON THE STAND IN KILKEE
CO. CLARE.
The instruments of wind whistle
In a victorian bandstand
Papers pirouette
A poster flaps a clap
Encore ! Encore!
The oceans roar.
Oyster-catchers paddle
Like summer nuns
Black and white
Their orange beaks
Machine sowing
The strand to the waters edge
A gull screeches
(the sound of a child lost at sea)
It's wings are held by a puppeteer
It wavers a battle without fear
Then suddenly
It lifts
And like a newspaper
Is blown away.
Our hands are tight as mollusc shells
Far from the concrete eyes
Of sea-side hotels.
Your hair, like gold dust
From the sand
Your eyes, they speak of finer days
Toes, painted red as lobsters
Against the strand
A scarf of seaweed blows in your hand.
Lips purple parched
From salt and sea
Our eyes moist
Thinking this cannot be
For eternity.
Tim Buckley
7/11/84
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