Low Tide, Omey Island Jamie O’Halloran

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.