By Conor Killian

Art By Lucy Keegan

I’ve spent warm days in Sandymount, 
When tide was out, and out with it –
the wind. I’d stroll along the strand and would
strut by 
Little clips of conversations: “And HOW is Ted MacBride?”
Or, “GOD I didn’t know was her” 
Or, “Ah sure, look it, you know sure…” 
And finding there no peace or rest, 
I’d go and have a stroll out to the shore. 

I liked how the sand felt with that first step, 
Smooth and slippery, yielding yet exciting, 
The surety of firmer sand ahead making wary plods
Prove safe. And sure enough, there soon was wetter sand,
Providing stable ground. And with it little rivulets,
Running wild this way and that, cutting up the sand like
Silver swords. I leapt these little fjords, and still kept
Balance. That was the trick: to tread with tentative toes,
Leap after leap, 
And keep a flow.

Once past these little isles and silver streams,
I reached a gap – a bar of sand in front, With
yards of feet-deep water in between. By this
time, however, the noise had departed, Being
cast behind me by the rolling stillness. The
only other sound the water lapping, and Sand
scattering. I viewed deeply out to sea, And
then turned back, unwilling to leap. I had
pleased me.

Conor Killian

Conor Killian is an undergraduate student in Maynooth University. He has a great interest in literature and considers themself an amateur poet. T. S. Eliot, Seamus Heaney, and Patrick Kavanagh are among his greatest influences. This is the first time he has submitted work for publishing.

CategoriesIssue VI