Killary Harbor

I drove through the narrow Gods— privet and cholesterol, or Irish creamery butter as the waiter called it, as it shaved another day off my life. There was no salt and antimony, just lumpy roads through Meath and Leitrim. The sky was a show of flashing mirrors as day broke on Rosses. Tide out and weed like cow pies on the shore. The punt down and the EEC on the horizon, as I read in the guidebook about pilgrims climbing St. Patrick’s barefoot every summer. Out of the fog a man in Wranglers and spurred boots, clean-shaven, a cigarette in hand, waved me down. “Scrum faced house at the end of the bay.” “Hop in,” I said.“You lookin’ for where John Wayne made