In the lilac of an Irish morning

White swans return to shore

In the swirl and eddies of the coastal inlets

Sea grasses and baby crabs, too soft for shells 

Hover between the salt waters and the fresh waters

It is a hidden place, a glommering between the twilight and the deep lights

These places  where the salty brine and the angelic freshness embrace 

Delicious, the sweetness of growing things, crushed berries that nourish wild deer

Apples split open, the shape of trees promised but not yet here

Honey gold in the sap, spring poetry rising up

All the in between places  

Mudflats, salt marshes, rocky dunes dotted with sea holly

Twisted by the tidal flows, the pink and white of bindweed

Carves a map that only wild birds can read 

Turning for home ports, promises fulfilled

Wild white swans in the nesting warp and weft, between the salt and the fresh

Singing the echoes of distant places, a cacophony of notes

That sound like soft verses, softer than rain, softer than down

Softer than all the hard things we thought we had lost 

In the glommering, all our hopes become ships to bring us home again.