We’ll hijack the County Kerry ferry and sail to France

I'd like to kiss you where it hurts,
sleep with you in a comfort
not known to the ad execs of Ariel,
and snooze with you in grey L.A. compound sheets
that match the beige of these blinds
that do nothing for darkness.

I’d dial for you,
confine myself to your pep talks through stud walls
as I wander back from the bathroom.
The shy, hard of hearing ask you
to whisper the foundations of what you are thinking,
base it in a terrain,
somewhere walkable,
shake the sand ‘cos hard rain’ll always fall,
wash back upon the shore.

So we hide away,
down in Country Kerry
to where
the inlets
harbour
soft laps
of running tides around
our ankles,
sockless for the first time since
home
wherever we left it,
but Tutankhamun got found and this isn’t as great as that just yet.

Through knee wave waters
come cat tongues
of shiver and shake,
acupuncture orchestras and winds of melody,
of timpani,
of gusto like cracked tiles
drilled and threaded
tink! in bathroom echo
walking rings around your back,
and on the spray south of Dingle Head
shall come slate mine concertos of where we’ve been led,
to here
where they’ve deckchairs thinner than baguettes,
breadstick scaffolding propping up thoroughbreds:
we’ve outgrown this farm. 

Can I be honest,
I'd rather the cataract
of sea plain and saw
jolt car crashes into my stomach
than leave you ill,

but I know where there’s a gurney stretch of sand that spills out over some steps into the end of the world,
it's Cap de l’Homy
and I’d like to call it home.