Low Tide, Omey Island I stand on the bed of the sea. It is festooned like a wedding cake with sandy rosettes of sea worms. There are tiers of strand, layers topped by tidal pools iced by more sand. A sheet of the North Atlantic is licked by a finger of Claddaghduff beach sprinkled with white holiday homes against whipped grey clouds. The tide separates us in shifts. In a few hours, the sea will return from the north and south, joining here, her waves like the hands of the claddagh carrying the heart. Jamie O’Halloran
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