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Walking the streets of Howth now, I can smell wet soil and
rotting leaves. Rainwater in the canals stream past me. So
much water has streamed past me. A tiny silver-haired lady
is walking in front with small effortful steps. An umbrella in
one hand, a half-empty shopping bag in the other. I slow
down to stay behind her. We walk like this all the way to
the Harbour Road, listening to our own footsteps, holding
tight to ourselves. We pass by old stone houses painted
terracota, mint and salmon. There is no lament in our steps
for the futures past. Seagulls circle above us, above the
boats and the lighthouse. In the distance, a cross and an
anchor rise against the sky making a fair wish:
Christ of the sea,
Christ of the fish,
May we be gathered in the nets of God.