I have no roots –

only memories.

Present becomes past before my eyes

Life is lived, recorded there, somehow,

More or less imperfectly inscribed

Within my head, thus stored behind my brow.

These things exist for me, just in my mind,

For if I try to seek them out again

There’s only ever something new to find:

Nothing in the stillness can remain.

I have no root...

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It’s on the coast.

Nothing west of it

until you hit America.

The small village,

just a few miles away

is typically Irish;

four bars and four churches,

one of which an ancient ruin.

The beach is idyllic;

blue flagged,

long enough for all comers,

glorious golden sand

with ocean waves

warmed by the Gulf Stream.

In summer, it’s perfect.

When ...

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