‘Donegal,’ I say.
I see the stone and oak pier,
Inishboffin, Inishdooey and Tory Island,
seals sunbathing on the sandbanks,
the sky, blue as a Greek door.
I imagine you carrying me, in a hold-all
across the dunes to Falcarragh Strand,
and then clutching my urn tight,
you, my love, shake my ashes out
onto the clear icy water.
I am swept out and back, bits of me
here and there, until I’m spread
across the bay, floating, waving.
‘Fine,’ you say.