Will the dog poo always be with us?
A low swathe of diaphanous cloud is puffing across a clear denim-blue sky as down Kilbush Lane we go, Bella, my wiry black and white terrier mix, and I. We’re on our way to the North Beach in Rush, Co Dublin, for our early morning ramble.
There’s a north-easterly wind would cut through you though, and an old salt who has stepped out from a galvanised shed for a roll-up, welding mask pushed to the top of his shaven knobbly head, remarks, “It’s a bit blowy.”
“Tis a bit,” I reply in kind.
Blowy? The fur on Bella’s black face is parted and her ears are flat against her head, making her look like a startled hawk from the front.
Forget Brexit: why are Fingal Council combing our North Beach?
Yeah, I suppose I am a bit aghast at the Brexit Leave result. And mildly worked up for sure about the Donald Trump phenomenon and vaguely troubled by all sorts of global things when I am reminded. Or somebody posts something on my social media feeds. Or the News comes on.
But just now I am actually rooted in silent, bludgeoned dismay, a marooned and lonely sea stack finally aware of its weathering disintegration, and the end of all things coming, when I see that Fingal Council tractor thing turning the sand yet again on the North Beach in Rush. Continue reading
(THE IRISH TIMES, July 11th, 2013)
What would Patrick Kavanagh make of this suspended moment?