out on beale
Estuarine for this is where she bids farewell
Leaving to lead a life of her own, with your man, Atlantic.
Sure can’t you trace it way back, before this, this soul swell;
Her pupils the clouds in the sky, a giveaway, lovesick.
A subdued Shannon coming from the Coast road here to Beale;
Curious as that is the Gaeilge for mouth, since here we are,
Her lips the cliffs of Clare and Kerry sand and shale.
Is the strong cross current reluctance, a bridge too far?
Estuarine, for it is at once beautiful and sad:
A thoughtful oil tanker about to tread the High Seas;
Here on the beach, indecision, is she really mad –
Shannon’s fingers last-grasping desperately on powdery sand.
Europe’s tallest wind-power mill praises Allah
Blades raised to where the sun makes a hole in the sky,
Before setting slowly behind clouds of sarsaparilla,
Leaving night to answer its own set of questions why.
Panic! Art Gallery