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.