Grey gulls, four, rise up before me. Glittering.
My footsteps steady, thudding softly on packed sand.
Black humps of seaweed on the strand's back,
the strand a lifeless beige where nothing stirs.
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Mweelrea, gone Japanese, wears a shawl of snow,
an old man waiting for the end, looking at himself
in the mirror of Killary. The tide quiet, my mind
softly thudding on its own packed sand. To lift anchor
and float, seeming to be free of it: to be at home
in the moment's coming and going, raw hands
raspberry from the cold, the east wind burning
to the brain, the brain falling away to ash, a sifting
in which things could come to light, might glitter.