Turning a corner, taking a hill In County Down, there's the sea Sidling and setting to The back of a hedge. Or else A grey bottom with puddles Dead-eyed as fish. Haphazard tidal craters march The corn and the grazing. All around Antrim and westward Two hundred miles at Moher

Basalt stands to. Both ocean and channel Froth at the black locks On Ireland. And strands Take hissing submissions Off Wicklow and Mayo. Take any minute. A tide Is rummaging in At the foot of the fields or the chinking normans? Or currachs hopping high On the sand? Stangford, Arklow, Carrickfergus, Belmullet and Ventry Stay, forgotten like sentries.

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