The Promenade at Bray with the Sugarloaf in the Background 

The sun was as cold as a coin at the bottom of the North Sea. 

The crazy wind blew all our words away until our insides  

Were as clean as a child’s soul. 

The promenade marched ahead of us, justifying our afternoon walk. 

The first day of March had us gloved and coated like Eskimos – 

It would decide when Spring would come to Ireland. 

You suggested we go down to the shoreline, which  

Would have seemed reasonable on any other day. 

Still, we traversed the pebbled hills, losing and regaining  

The marvel of our legs, until, at last, we stood  

On Bray’s thin smile of sand.  

We played our parts then, cartoon characters, laughing and retreating 

From the unpredictability of the waves. 

And when the car doors closed with the dead thump of endings, 

We would not let go of this chance intensity 

And took it home, a priceless and recovered treasure.