Spinning on grass, the sky
kaleidoscoping, breath thrown away
and returning with the strong smell
of salt and spay.
the wild rush of a giddy head
and unsteady legs on the point of life
or death, cliffs plunge below me
to sea and rocks.
The new lighthouse a knight
shining white, in the late sunshine
Galahad in brick and ohms and amps,
and here I am spinning like a wool crazed kitten.
I’ve always been directionless,
a rudderless mess. Head full
off cyclonic lows and Atlantic highs.
On good days the sky is mine.
On bad days the sun never rises.
a fault at the manufacturing phase,
miss-wiring of the mainframe
a brain that will not follow
The system codes eroded.
The lighthouse rises from a rock,
lies like a whale beached at high tide
for want of a guiding light.
A lighthouse too late to save itself.
Can it save me, can I be saved?
© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com