The Ghent Review Volume1, Number 1, summer 2016 | Page 9

Anton Floyd
george's head co clare
here at george's head
as if the cliffs heaved to
waves crash headlong
splintering to foamy shards
take flight like flocks
of wind-blown gulls
then fall to the rocks
sucking all downwards
into the white swirls
the skirts of drowning sirens
between massy pulses
these seas flatten - will recede
then wait my heart
for that distant levelling

lough gur summer
a summer sunday morning
limerick is humid
we cycle out of the city
the haze like a miasma
is already swallowing
the spire of st john's
alone on the road
it's good to be out of the city
like voiding a confessional
the roadside grasses
the dappled hedgerows
are flags to spur us on
until we catch
a first view of water
a horse-shoe lake
a clear unpeopled space
lough gur serene and
supple as a swan's neck
the limpid lake
in that day's sun