image M.T.C. Cronin
The Dog and Gull

This is the raw hand.

The bridge that goes under the river.

There is no-one to address.

Children are born straight from their grandparents.

Sandy graves are the most grasping.

The sea snail comes.

The sea snail goes.

Molluscs too.

At the happy beach we sit.

The river joins the sea with five little lies in its throat.

Our hands clap as if one May is like another.

As if death had the shape of something we could feel.

There is no-one.

The dog and gull in the distance.