In County Down, there's the sea
Sidling and settling to
The back of a hedge. Or else
A grey foreshore with puddles
Dead-eyed as fish.
Haphazard tidal craters march
The corn and the grazing.
All round 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 all fields,
All cliffs and shingles.
Listen. Is it the Danes,
A black hawk bent on the sail?
Or the chinking Normans?
Or currachs hopping high
On to the sand?
Strangford, Arklow, Carrickfergus,
Belmullet and Ventry
Stay, forgotten like sentries.
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