A Swim in Co. Wicklow

The only reality is the perpetual flow of vital energy. —Montale Spindrift, crustacean patience and a gust of ozone, you come back once more to this dazzling shore, its warm uterine rinse, heart-racing heave and groan. A quick gasp as you slip into the hissing wash, star cluster, dulse and kelp, slick algae, spittle, froth, the intimate slash and dash, hard-packed in the seething broth. Soft water-lip, soft hand, close tug of origin, the sensual writhe and snore of maidenhair and frond, you swim here once more smart as a rogue gene. Spirits of lake, river and woodland pond preside mildly in water never troubled by wind or tide; and the quiet suburban pool is only for the fearful — no wind-wave energies where no sea briar grips and no freak breaker with the violence of the ages comes foaming at the mouth to drown you in its depths. Among pebbles a white conch worn by the suck and crunch, a sandy skull as old as the centuries, in cold and solitude reclines where the moon-magnet shines; but today you swirl and spin in sea water as if, creatures of salt and slime and naked under the sun, life were a waking dream and this the only life.