The sand across the beach, engulfed by an hallucinatory gleam,
Or so it seemed. The scale was vast, the proportions dizzying.
We laughed that we lacked the ‘Celtic spirit’, risen from the phoenix,
“ But sells poems,” she side-mouthed, with a knowing wink.
“To all those who know a little and understand less?” he asked.
“Aye, them.” She quietly replied and we walked on: skimming stones,
Paddling, arguing, hand-in-hand, beneath a sky-of-Eden-blue
Remember, this was all a long, long time ago. When Deirdre was alive,
And Jack had his wits about him. “Before the Synod of Whitby, 
Nearly half a millennium before the Conquest?” He pondered.
“How many people know that French was the national language
Of England for over 300 years? Until Henry IV who died on crusade
In 1399, in Jerusalem.” “Not me — I cannot think of that time. Yet.”
I kissed her, we threw stones, walked on, she sneezed, we were young.