It’s on the coast.

Nothing west of it

until you hit America.

 

The small village,

just a few miles away

is typically Irish;

four bars and four churches,

one of which an ancient ruin.

 

The beach is idyllic;

blue flagged,

long enough for all comers,

glorious golden sand

with ocean waves

warmed by the Gulf Stream.

 

In summer, it’s perfect.

When the sun shines.

In winter, the summer squalls

send their big brothers.

Rain, snow, sleet, hail

driven horizontal by Atlantic winds.

 

Distorted trees,

branches only on the inland side,

cower from gales

battering in from north and west.

 

Civilisation hasn’t quite made it here.

Life moves on at a slower pace.

What’s your rush?

Sure, there’s time enough for that

tomorrow,

or next week.

 

I have history here.

Summer job,

summer romance.

I don’t live here,

but every time I return,

every time,

I am home.