Martello

I climbed the tiny,
Stone steps,
To the place where,
You slept.

Looked at your thin,
Wooden cane.

Traced your lives,
In the gold embroidery,
Of your waistcoat.

Shed a tear,
At the intimacy of it all.

Climbed to the summit,
Traced my finger,
Along mortar joints,
Looked out at the bathing lake,
Where old age swam.
The chip! chop! waters,
Icy and treacherous.

I put in my toe,
And my whole body,
Tingled,
As I flip-flopped,
Out to sea.

You could see the top of Howth Head,
From here,
The swell of,
Cliff,
And Nora's walking boot cloud above.

I near froze to death that day,
In the water,
Looking up at where once you lay,
Moving and spitting seeds,
On the ledge of life.

I try to,
In my clumsy way,
Swim it all in.

Touch a blade of grass on the path.

I hold the giant handle,
Of that Eccles Street door,
Only it is not,
whole.

All black and brooding it is,
Angry at being,
Propped up in a tiny tea shop,
In a dusty corner.

Tea-sets and quiet.