When the linen flaps open
With its east coast view of the Mournes,
And Ian Fleming novelettes
Hide in a pile of fragrant clothes,
There is always the sea -
That reeling silence on a line,
And the clay like ground tarragon,
With its stench of burnished brine.
And always the hint of fire,
The thatch in its myriad parts,
And the air full of black-tailed grass
That some times has red hearts.
From Working for the Government by Gerard Fanning published this month by The Dedalus Press.
