It was September, almost too late,
when we crossed the bay to Innish Mor.
The island rose before us like a grey solidified sea,
part of the same limestone strata that lay beneath
our childhood,
but here the fused skeletons
had long been exposed. Scarred and strafed,
their only flesh was a temporary fog.
Pedalling west from Killronan, we went
in search of history.
The unmetalled road turned our quest,
like our conversations, into a crazy rodeo,
each innocent turn of the pedal, each quiet word,
promised exhilaration, or possible death.
Within the walls of Dun Aenghus, that
prehistoric question mark,
we sat by the cliff’s edge, and watched
the wan figures of walkers.
Some floated legless across the clouds,
others stepped off into space, oblivious of danger.
They made life look so easy.
We laughed, and all the while, the invisible sea growled,
like the past, threatening to devour us.
