In Clew Bay’s shallows chewed-up lumps of islands loiter
with one-storey dwellings clinging to their deformed edges
like adolescents on street corners, not one thing is regular
and I won’t ask who lives here or who in this wasteland cares.
The tide is so high that it’s impossible to walk out
without wading waist-deep in the detritus of this
absolutely small-time coastline but not far enough in
to refloat a flat-lining boat. It’s abandoned face-down
at the shoreline, left there, like me stranded in this ugly
mud and sand land that can only dream of pasture.
Oh it’s long past listing, that dingy is beached, bereft of any dignity
and I am strung out. Collie dog cocks his leg and pees on it
and I’m long past listening to those Brent geese getting
the hell out of here, the whirs and hoots of them escape me
because I’m exposed, I’m mainlining electricity from overhead wires.
Shhh, listen! They are singing-howling-whistling down
in my gut and out through the greyness of this autumn dusk
their twang could be from Siberia but on my hairline the wires
burn a thin cold bellow and I like it. I like the winsome Collie dog
and the streaks of sea-water rust on his white brisket, how it seeps
from his clammed-up collar buckle as he brings me the same piece
of sea-jaded timber over and over and over and I am on the air now
whinnying, I’m twanging like a string plucked and echoing,
here I am my own doppelganger. I am listening,
can you hear me listening and don’t I sound just like myself?