The Walker on Howth Head.

The Walker on Howth Head.
Knapsack, stick and bowed into his head,
Padding Peaceful,
Even tip toes,
Secretive on secret ways,
a soft shoe shuffle,
Stops, still, silent, taciturn, composed.

I.
A kestrel flutters,
Below Red Rock
As on a pin
Looking down on tired ferns
No drama of fire or blood
Just hovering.

Stops. Still. Silent.

II
In the Bog of Frogs
He watches
For a croak and splash,
A damp oasis of Jurassic,
Only Silence of purple bells,
Shin-Prickles of yellow gorse.
Surprise!
Howth’s burnt head, Dublin’s bush lands,
Sprouting new found ferns on its frizzled scalp.

Secretive on secret ways.
III
Hidden behind screens of trees
On tarmacadam downhill paths
Past parks, golf courses, suburbs,
Past tock of ball, smash of racket.
As from behind a curtain walking out unannounced
Into a set of seaside Blue and white shops
Fish and chippers, Pizza pastries,
French teashop windows with pastel ladies,
Farmers markets and sandal types,
Italian artisans shaping delph
Far from Milan.
Quays with tingling rope masts,
Crying gulls vie with
Romanian corner accordions.
Cosmopolitan,
Restaurants, Viking King Sitric,
Russian Beshoffs.
Wrights- Findlaters.
At a turn to Balscadden Bay the human race
Gone.
So Sudden.

Quiet Padding, Peaceful.
IV
A straight stick and bent back
Urged by soaring kittiwakes,
To precipices overlooking
The child’s lands of Ireland’s Eye,
Castled Lambay Island,
Silver Yachts on wrinkled seas,
Sails in winds and spray
To the tiny Mournes lit far beyond the queuing clouds.
Chinese and Poles with digital Canons,
Stare stunned into the inscrutable
And turn the viewfinders back upon themselves.

Still. Silent.
V
Bailey Light house,
Quiet
On Doldrum Bay’s cliffs
Where once into coves
Smugglers rolled casks,
Pulled pirate plunder onto shell- shingle beaches
Away from prying eyes.
Now if they merely looked over their shoulders
All of Dublin
Watches.
Only a walker stares back at it all.
Smitten, silent
In
Sutton.
The sun; sets.

Knapsack, stick and bowed into his head,
Padding Peaceful,
Even tip toes,
Secretive on secret ways,
A soft shoe shuffle,
Stops.
Still.
Silent.
Taciturn.
Composed.
Composing.
Bobby Buckley August 24th 2013.

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