Looking down through dead water.

foto credit Fiona Cullen

On the ferry,

I liked sitting

on the edge,

looking down,

through dead water*.

I was returning

to a place

that was

and was not

my home.

I had never

been away,


on the ferry,

looking down.

The River Suirs’

waters swirling,

muddy grey,

where it meets

the sea.

In the morning,

waiting, waiting.

Nearer now

to the quay,

where he’d be waiting,

with the brake and horses,

a pair in hand.

Home again.

Looking down through dead water.


*Deadwater – the mass of eddying water formed along a ship’s sides in her progress through the water