Poetry of migration … extract from Nessa O’Mahony’s verse novel, In Sight of Home

Waking up in Beaumaris  Some days I wake
and wonder where
I’ve washed up. 

The tide’s gone out,
yachts lie where they fell,
tilted awkwardly on props. 

Motor boat engines
clench black fists in air, stranded
by a breeze withholding forecasts. 

On the sand-bar
shadows search for pickings,
fill their bags, move on. Closer to shore clockwork
oyster-catchers bob, then take to air
as a radio pips noon. 

A black-backed gull
pulls at something
long-tailed. A car kerb-crawls
for a spot on the sea-front,
fails, resumes the circuit. I watch a man walk his dog, pause,
read the sign he has seen
every day for a lifetime.

~ by Nessa O'Mahony on July 3, 2007.