Submontane

Boats lollop
in the bay,
the wind distractedly
picks at the hem
of your Sunday dress.
Widowed clouds
crest the hills
which mark the boundary
of our terra cognita
in that hair-shirted Ireland
of the freeze-framed Fifties.

Our laughter ousts

the clacking of the gulls

on the Martello Tower
as we tamp the week’s joy
into the precarious furlough
between the end of Mass
and repossession by your Da,
a bellow on him
for all the world
like a thwarted minotaur.