Walking, peering over the cliff edge,
walking the high coastal path:
a warm summer breeze
rushes in off the sea.
Tiniest of brackish droplets
leave the skin – salt flecked:
I raise a hand to shield my eyes
from the charging Atlantic spray.
An old narrow road drops down
into this small fishing hamlet:
where boats, nets and crates
litter harbour walls and sun shaded alleys.
Todays’ catch fills the air
with the freshest perfume:
salivating with just the thought
of what lunch will bring – today.
The fresh faced Ailla, awaiting exam results,
delivers dawn’s mackerel catch:
watching eyes of Tommy, from under the brim
of his favourite Fiddler cap.
Tommy’s long, now greying, beard has shielded
flesh from many a rough day at sea;
with love he watches Ailla and knows
she’ll escape this tiny hamlet soon.
Wind battered boats, the thrill of the sea
crashing house high into the harbour walls,
nor the narrowest of cobbled streets,
will hold his beloved from venturing far.