Sand slips under foot like memory into mind,
waves wash up along a country lane leading down
into a secreted sea, past a thistle that pricks not;
so much beauty cannot bear a beast.
There is breath in these back fields I recall
on the curve of this spiral game, returning like these tides
that tickle the familiarity that floats on the foam
of the waves I once forged freedom on,
getting far enough out just to find my way back in.
Home is not something you recognise until you return,
like the smell of this sea stretching out to islands
that look in on me, as if trying to find a way to connect,
home is not something you miss until you swim out,
not something you recognise until the tide takes you back in
to that secreted sea, stashed away down a country lane
and you recall
how the sand once felt under foot.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly