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.