Honeymoon
One or two dead sheep lay by the road.
We saw a hairpin bend signed 'Beware of
Blind People Crossing' as we drove from Dublin,
West to Connemara's wild Atlantic shores
To black rock crags patched white between with
Coral sand, backed by bog the other side of the
Deserted coastal R341 and a cottage
Between Ballyconeely and the Mannin Bay Blueway.
Farmers parked their Morris Minors
Where the river flowed half a metre deep
Across the road though we had no choice but
To go through with water lapping to the doors
As our engine choked and stuttered.
There was not a thing on bare shop shelves
Save what the tide and storms brought in,
Or so it seemed. Just a single skate wing
In a solitary wooden box stood centre
On a warehouse floor, as though awaiting
Bomb disposal, far from the great shutter door
Opened for us when we called for something
For our supper. The weather was the worst in living Memory. "'Tis wild, 'tis wild," the shepherd said,
Nothing more, driving him from his hitch-hike
To the nearest village pub
Where, with two halves of Guinness down for us,
He retired to a corner table to drink alone across
The room in an empty bar. Cottage number 94
Was dark and damp. We had dragged the sofa
Out to try and warm and dry on the only fine
Afternoon when a sheepdog came by and into the Compound, low walled with broken breeze block
Placed to mark the cottage ground.
He beckoned us to follow him way back into the bog.
It seemed he had a mission and so we went
Along a mile or two at pace until he turned tail at
No particular point on the path and disappearing
From our view left us alone and panting.
A hotel waitress took pity on us at our only
Venture out to lunch. "Would we be wanting
Another lobster ? - its on the house," she said.
They had boiled too many for the service.
Could she tell we were on our honeymoon?
To be sure, still awkward, shy and out of place in Galway's wildest weather and Atlantic autumn storms.
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