There’s Dublin wading past its reach:
white villas hold the curve of land
and then, I picture, bungalows—Dalkey
like a fossil down softly for the night,

dreaming hierarchies. The sea makes rows
of lace as of old, and flats in town
are curtained with the stuff. The wind would itemise
but scrolls out on pebbles, drowns, drawing the gulls.

Here’s me high-stepping into pageants gone,
transactions abraded to bone.
What memories stick are potted,
years now turning on the sill for best exposure

in the present day, as when on a rock
over the bay I accepted a welding mask
from a stranger just to clamp eyes on
the sun making hay behind the moon.