By Natalie Racanelli 

The pier, rough with jagged history twisted stone
Jets into oblivion, rocks of pain power
Lost wars and unknown voyages, sunken swords
Steep from seaweed thick rimless edges

The steeple peers from thin wisps of fog
Dissonance, forgotten religions!
Lament priests, in the cold night air
These stones are sirens
Telling stories of longing and fallen folklore of Brehon days
Waves erupt on walls
Booms of salt and spray like furious volcanic ash

It’s eerie out
Offkey lighthouse cries echo and bounce back
Picos bob like marionettes
Grey water churning, haunting
Strange voices lie in the dark pools beneath
Steps that lead to nowhere, the abyss of stars
The hollow sound of rock on sea on boom on blow
Dún Laoghaire in October.