She Sends Sea Shells

There’s nothing along this old shore but ghosts,
no matter what the old man said, I see
no treasure, no pleasure, no myth and no glee.
The sun pounds a tattoo in my brain and it roasts
my skin, and the engine turns over and over.

We can hear the sea through a shell,
and the coast is littered with old bones.
We can see the spray through our hell,
and watch the weather batter our faces and homes.

I trawl the beach for beautiful stones,
I skim them off the spray, as a gift to you.
But you sink in the cold water, all alone,
and Irish Sea offers endless grey blue.

Icy fingers around my feet, numbing my toes.
Like your cold hands reaching up from the dark,
When you die/when you go/no one knows,
but I feel your spirit, rough like driftwood bark.

The sea turns on you like a cornered beast,
friends, family, lovers can fail without abide.
For them, your body and spirit is a pagan feast,
There’s nothing certain, but the turn of the tide.

You wait for me in the deepest darkest deep,
I see seaweed in your hair, fish in your sockets.
You are soaked to the soul, and unable to weep,
Around your neck, my picture in a locket.

They send thanks, they send prayers,
I send memories of wedding bells,
When tide pulls, and the sand shifts in layers,
She sends sea shells.