We took a walk down through the village.
Twilight reflecting off the eclectic collage
of white wash and thatch, red and pink
and blue in warmest hue.
Pubs and shops between the homes
of fairy folk. The denizens of Doolin.
Behind it all the surge of tide
and a view if such were true,
clear all the way to Boston
Crab Island awash with surf
and breaking waves that pound and boom.
A sound less heard then seen and felt
through limestone ground.
A groundswell that carries on its crest
the aroma of orange zest,
coffee and cocoa from the gulf of Mexico.
All echo off the looming limestone cliffs.
Two thousand miles of rolling wave
shifting sand to break on the rock and land
in mushroom blooms of surf and sand.
Memories already of dolphin days
and sun. The Aran’s floating in august haze.
Moher where the peregrine call
over wind blown grass and towering cliffs.
We left the next day.
The drive back slow through the Burren
pavement and peaks of limestone.
Along the narrow roads and shore
to Ballyvaughan through Fanore.
Our Doolin days and nights fade
in sights of rolling road
through Aughrim and Athlone.
The road back home to Dublin.
© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com