A Swim in Co. Wicklow

The only reality is the perpetual flow of vital energy.
—Montale

Spindrift, crustacean patience

and a gust of ozone,

you come back once more

to this dazzling shore,

its warm uterine rinse,

heart-racing heave and groan.

A quick gasp as you slip

into the hissing wash,

star cluster, dulse and kelp,

slick algae, spittle, froth,

the intimate slash and dash,

hard-packed in the seething broth.

Soft water-lip, soft hand,

close tug of origin,

the sensual writhe and snore

of maidenhair and frond,

you swim here once more

smart as a rogue gene.

Spirits of lake, river

and woodland pond preside

mildly in water never

troubled by wind or tide;

and the quiet suburban pool

is only for the fearful —

no wind-wave energies

where no sea briar grips

and no freak breaker with

the violence of the ages

comes foaming at the mouth

to drown you in its depths.

Among pebbles a white conch

worn by the suck and crunch,

a sandy skull as old

as the centuries, in cold

and solitude reclines

where the moon-magnet shines;

but today you swirl and spin

in sea water as if,

creatures of salt and slime

and naked under the sun,

life were a waking dream

and this the only life.

Source: New Collected Poems (The Gallery Press, 2011)