Newgale
You stand at shoreline watching.
Unaware the tide advances,
despite decades of life by the sea,
you dip your toes in icy Atlantic swell.
But decay has arrived as a rip tide – pulls
you under, drags you out into the bay.
The men throw a rope and you cling
tight. They pull to little avail.
You try swimming sideways and the rope
slackens in a moment of relief. A second current
grabs you. The pattern repeats. It’s not your grip
that’s the problem. This useless voyeur wonders
at your gritted teeth, and what it is you’re trying
to come back for, on this cold and empty beach.
Originally from the west of Ireland, Sarah O’Connor lives in London, where she works in opera. Published in Abridged, Bangor Literary Journal, Broken Spine, Green Ink Poetry, Re-side, Shooter, and the anthology Demos Rising from Fly on the Wall Press