In Memoriam, Aedan O’Beirne
I’d like now to be going out the walk you told me
—the Liffey to the Dodder through city byways.
North Wall, East Link, Irishtown—can I hold it in my head?
A heron in the sloblands under Edwardian bridges.
The South Wall to the Poolbeg. I walk four miles out
into grey pointillism, then filigreed dark, and look back in
—bracelet of shore light—to nights you were alive
and I was walking to the DART to Sydney Parade.
‘David—everything good now.’ I knew you’d stand a while,
counting light houses’ returns. It was your Mount Saint Victoire.
In the peloton near Grand Central, I achieve the glide
of separation. Walking out to Howth—the tide pooling
between the sandbars maps a river delta—
I never thought to be a fast walker.