The Day Is a Poem


after Robinson Jeffers


Rain on the window and thick cloud

over the mountains. Gulls dive blackbacked

at fish in mud.


On the radio they’re making the long hard choice

about emigrating

and a girl is coy about the Leaving Cert.


The estuary fills and unfills, brown sand

morphed to tempered-metal with the tides.

Buttercups and daisies bow in the wind.


Returning from Bonners, the slodge

of a black pint swilling—a cormorant

goes like the clappers


as the last plane lands at Tra Nan Strand.

Two pipistrelles whirligig

in the half-light of Braade Cottage.


Yes, the day is a poem: but too much

like one of McKimm’s, full of landscape and local news

and finishing none the wiser.