I climb from under the man-hole,
the rat's nest of winter, find myself
on the beach at Kilkee, its perfect
horse-shoe bay. It must have been
beautiful once, before the crescent
bloomed its corona of bungalows.
Mid-March, I'm standing on the roof
of the year, looking down its long drag
its high waves pulling and shoving,
arrogant prancers making like it's
in their gift to jerk the moon along
behind them, a ball of rags on a string,
make it go full circle, again and again.
Sky, powder-blue. Bladder wrack.
A sign on the bus shelter reads: 'Leave
nothing but your footprints'. Lines
of grey trees bend their bare backs
before the Atlantic winds, scraps
of black plastic cling, like tattered
shrouds, to the thorn. On the beach,
the equinoctal carnival is gearing up,
mustering to start again. Ah, start again.

Mary Noonan’s first collection, The Fado House (Dedalus Press), was shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Centre Prize and the Strong/Shine Award