THE BOATS IN DINGLE HARBOUR

His bogman hands, leeched of youth,
search for cigarettes and, finding none,
dig deeper into empty pockets, stretching the wool
to find warmth against the cutting wind.
 
He is salt-crusted, like the boats
in Dingle Harbour, and he looks out towards
the thieving blue where the burning
of weathered ropes against young hands
reads like a dying language.
 
As the ocean breathes long and slow,
he too breathes long and slow,
closing his eyes against the brightness
of the sun, losing himself in memory.