Looking Down at Mullaghmore Harbour

Two figures and a dog walk the distant beach, Like the young couple in 1987 who thought It was the most peaceful place on earth

Not knowing that we would ever live here. On the headland

Brown boulders in the low tide

Take the brunt of the big waves breaking early. Black figures on their stomachs, beetle like, Flail on surfboards against the breakers

Below the green wooden cross

That remembers the dead and prays -

Go ndéana Dia Trócaire ar a nanamacha

God bless their souls.

Killybegs, across Donegal Bay

Pops out of the mist

And quickly disappears again. Small craft hide inside the harbour wall And redundant green nets rot on the jetty Held down by their bright orange buoys.

Eagles Rock rears over Classiebawn, Looking out across the dunes.

‘The Pier Head’, ‘The Beach’ and the ‘Boat Club’ Triangulate the harbour.

Go bhfaighmíd go léir síocháin in ár gcroíthe. May we have peace in our hearts.

by Tony Keenan

dark grey roaring foam white spittle flying waves creep up the sand hunting sandpipers tripping on the beach covered in shells breaking underfoot into pieces of what once was a home like the broken concrete littering the rocks homes slowly sanded away first to a shard then polished till only a bright nought remains by Marc Gijsemans

Upon my dandelion hands; The mermaids - close behind, Presuming me to know.

I started upon the sands, Went past the tide. Extended - my bodice wholly; Made with pearl.

Upon I felt I would overflow; The sea, bowing with silver. A mighty look followed. The sea - withdrew.

by Nina Fern

I can’t stop myself from constantly wondering if I am tracing his footsteps, planting my feet in the same soft piece of earth that he did. Did Dr James ever walk this road? Watch the sunset from here? Sit and eat his lunch in this park, leaning against the same sturdy tree?

How many people have done this throughout the years? And how many felt like I do? How many people came before just like me? How many? How many had sad endings –forced back into femininity? How many were buried as the men they truly were? How many women spent their whole lives wanting something they didn’t know they could have? How many knew but were too scared? How many were silenced? How many do we now hail as heroines? And how many go unremembered?

In a way, gladly, for it means they had freedom ‘til the end. But for me, looking back, I can’t see the invisible. Either they suffer in life, or in death for my satisfaction.

by S. H. Tuohy