Not many find their way here.
After the islands, riding luminous
and unreachable in the Sound,
and the Three Sisters, dreaming,
this is the end of the road.

But as you drove here
through the sedge grass
and reeds of Feothanach
croí na teanga
you were preparing yourself for Cuas:

shedding other landscapes
for the simplicity of the bridge
over a stream
that runs into the sea
at the end of a world

the cobbled slipway,
a few boats bobbing in the natural harbour
—just a gash in black cliffs,
afterthoughts of Mount Brandon—
the frightening simplicity that says

the road ends here.
If you want to continue,
either navigate or climb.
There is nowhere else to go.
Abreeze ripples the water

as if Brendan had just left harbour.
And you walk back from the pier
the way you would after seeing off a friend,
back to the only life you have
hesitant, but resolved.