Little one for the summer...
Curracloe
The cars looking for parking and granddad saying out past
the sand bank are basking sharks. That he used swim with them out in Dungarvan
and he gives a wink. Young lads green coming off the waltzers and through the
P.A. there’s a seat left on the Future Dance. The roar of holiday money thrown
to chippers and arcades, pin balls smashing records. And in the marram grass
the big fella is climbing up on the missus, half clothed the big red neck on
him. Little men with ice cream snots dripping off the top lip shouting and bawling
as a skinny chap in atomic green togs, water to his ankles, wonders the point
of it at all. And granddad says they’ve no teeth on them but by Jaysus they’d
swally ya whole. And now the big fella, covered in lumpy sweat apologizing to
the missus, just gimme a few minutes says he and I’ll be ready again, the sand
plastered up his inner thigh tearing the hole off him. Mothers with sun screen
palms and everyone trying to make memories, forcing too hard, some. But we lie
down and bask in it all, melanomas and our skins not able. And there he is now
a little bit further out, shaking with the cold and the waves turning black.
The chap in atomic togs swimming with sharks.
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