On the Lough’s shore it is possible to find partially knapped flints,
rejected as arrow heads when the line of fracture
was not right -a misjudged strike by the knapping stone.
The chippings have been ground to sand by the tides,
lost as varying shades of grit compress in the damp,
unnoticed when trailing across the beach by the tideline -
picking a path carefully in May to avoid the ragworm’s
death throes above their hidden eggs, and in August
when the lea shimmers with dissolving corpses of jellyfish.
There is no liberty found here mixed with splinters of shells
and rotting sea brack, the soft parts of dying things
and the broken fragments of what was intended to fly -
but beyond the mussel banks I have ridden the wake
of the ferries, astride the prow of my Uncle’s boat
shoulders untensed and neck unbowed in the lash of the brine
where, from the rooftop of each wave, my cry was untamed.