Because the Dublin packet’s draught was too great
for it to moor, irrespective of tides,
beside the quay, it would anchor in the roads
of the estuary. Passengers and goods
would be ferried to and fro by long boat.
Where the ship hoved-to a lagoon has been cut
among the fields of reed beds that thrive
on the rich silt accumulated, over
two centuries, this side of the river.
When sea-going vessels could no longer
sail the narrowing channels, when only
shrimping boats could find open water,
but the sandy beach was not yet overgrown
the place became a seaside resort.
The Customs House on the sea wall was razed.
A donkey stand was built on its foundations.
And there we sit today, contemplatively,
enjoying our Caesar Salad wraps,
watching a little egret on the lagoon –
and imagining George Frederick Handel,
for example, embark for Dublin
and the first performance of ‘The Messiah’,
and Dean Jonathan Swift returning home
to compose ‘A Modest Proposal’
concerning the children of the Irish poor.
Down river, too far to identify,
a raptor is circling; beyond, like
nets cast, flocks of waders rise and land.
On the horizon – where the river
and the Irish Sea mingle out of sight –
is the suspicion of white wind turbines.
By David Selzer