NEAR HAG’S HEAD
(Cliffs of Moher, Ireland)
This headland is the battered prow
of a ship my silent father rides
into the Atlantic. Gust after gust
buffets the raw crag of his face,
his windbreaker fl apping like a sail.
He could be his own father’s grandfather
the way he stands before the rail
as others stood before the hold, the blind
journey before them, and nods to me
in recognition despite the ocean between us.
Even he knows on these cliffs the dead
are reading aloud from the book of the wind.