In the Autumn Dad would anchor home.
Mom would stitch the holes in his socks,
he the holes in his nets. No more.
We wake another taken by the Sea.
The men look itchy in their suits,
uncomfortable without salt on their lips.
Eternal rest grant upon him …
console the wailing matriarchs.
Alone on the cliff-tops, sloes ripen –
as a child, he’d find different ways
of tricking me into eating them.
Today they are nectar.
The men leave in comfortable clothing
to search the surrounding sea – tradition –
they guard against the Banshee taking his body.
Until it is found, another white cross
is cemented onto the rocks.
Miceál Kearney lives in Galway. His poetry has been published in Ireland, England and America. In 2009, he read as part of Poetry Ireland’s Introduction Series. Doire Press published his debut collection, Inheritance, in 2008. He is currently working on his 2nd collection, Cartography.