Low Tide at Howth and the Things the Sea Won't Say
Two short poems written on the pier and the cliff path at Howth, about grief, gulls, and the honesty of an outgoing tide.
I go out to Howth when I cannot think. The DART does the thinking for me as far as Sutton, and then the sea takes over. These two poems came from one grey Sunday in March, the year my father died, when the tide was so far out the boats lay down in the mud like tired dogs.
I. The Pier
The boats are lying on their sides
as if someone told them
the news before me.
Gulls argue over a chip paper.
A woman in a red coat
throws a ball for nobody,
then laughs, then throws it again.
The lighthouse keeps its one idea
all afternoon.
I envy it.
II. The Cliff Path
Gorse, and the smell of coconut
nobody believes until they stand in it.
The sea down there
pulling its long breath back
over the stones,
saying nothing, saying nothing,
which is the kindest thing
anyone has said to me all week.
On What the Tide Teaches
Everyone wanted to say something in those weeks. They meant well. They said he was at peace, that time would help, that he would have wanted me to eat a proper dinner. I nodded at all of it and felt nothing land.
The sea at Howth did not try to help. That was the gift. It went out, the way it always goes out, and it showed me the floor of the harbour, the old ropes and the green stones and a shopping trolley someone had given up on. It said: this is what is underneath, and it is alright to look.
Some comfort only arrives when nobody is trying to give it to you.
If You Go
Go on a weekday if you can, when the pier is quieter. Walk out past the fishing boats to the lighthouse and back, then up the cliff path as far as your legs allow. Buy something hot in a paper cup. Do not bring anything to read.
When the tide is low, stand at the edge of the harbour wall and look down. You will see what the water usually hides. It is not frightening. It is just the bottom of things, waiting for the sea to come home.
I still go out there most months. The boats still lie down at low tide. The lighthouse still has its one idea. And I have learned to sit beside it, without needing to say anything at all.
Cover: Photo by Elliot Voilmy on Unsplash.
