On Tory Island, by David Wheatley

Starting from the end of the world –
a dead crab rattles its quayside pot
in the wind and my stomach
declines the trip, stays put
on the pier while its contents slosh
in a plastic bag. The wind stops
for a moment and we all fall down.

Given the painter’s eschewal
of perspective the island you are
bound for will now topple off
the edge of the sky. You are sailing
to and not from the mainland.
All islands are mainlands. This
is the world and all other corners its ends.

Knots of islanders stream from
the graveyard to East Town and West Town –
the infinite riches of if not one thing
the other – each soul one peg the more
to stop the place blowing away
with the trees (there are no trees
on the island) and the lighthouse beams,

blown out to sea and snapped at
by Balor’s teeth where the island runs out.
Lighthouse beam, then dash,
dark, stop and wait: how it was
before streetlights, getting back
from the pub: beam, dash, dark, stop,
wait in the Atlantic-wide black-out.

The island disappears round me
in mist, the pier water is transparent
black. Believe with the harbour’s
Tau cross in a faith long cancelled,
granting you nothing: miss the last boat
and look back on a cancelled world through
the one bleary eye in the back of your head.

Author: David Wheatley 

By kind permission of the author and The Gallery Press, Loughcrew, Oldcastle, County Meath, Ireland from “A Nest on the Waves” (2010)