As winter yields
and April fades to May
the lengthening days
awaken cigarette haze
and Tullamore Dew
cloaked memories
of that summer we shared
on Árainn Mhór:

You lying in the sun
reading the thickest books we found
yellowing in a Dungloe shop window;
illustrated Life of Brian scripts,
The Last Temptation of Christ,
you liked them both –
and you, an atheist.

Naked splashing
in a spring-water rock pool
warmed in the sun
flushed by the tide.

As the Earth turned slowly
and seeming timeless
campfire evenings
stretched tilting –
tilting into darkness
I drank too much ‘Tullamore’
and you sipped rum.

You lying on talc-soft
passionate sand
beneath a parasol,
a wisp of gauze draped –
for decency’s sake –
casually across your thighs,
captivated me.

You laid aside
‘The Last Temptation’
as I walked toward you
and I swear to God,
that in your face
I saw the face of God.

And your welcoming smile
was His smile
and your wide-open arms
were His arms
and your acceptance of me
was His acceptance.

I hope I’m not disturbing you,
I had to speak to you again.

Straight from the ferry from Burtonport
I hired a bike and rode past Lough Shore
to the old lighthouse
where you spent long hours
painting your watercolours
and wanted to settle
but the cancer feasting on you
devoured you

I buried your ashes
in the amphora
you brought from Syria -
planted an asphodel
and inscribed a memorial
on a flat chalk stone,

“Here lies my brief miracle.”

Weathered by winters
the inscription is faded.

I sit drinking rum –
it tastes of your hugs
embraces my soul
you are near
you are
so very near.

I will go to the shore
to find another
white soft-stone marker,
and on it I’ll write,

“Tread gently... Saoirse dreams here.”