Dreaming of blissful times spent on Ireland’s North Coast.

Around the final bend we slip,
and there it is, the dip 
in the road that leads
to the end of the world.

"Oh look" she says from the back seat.
Popping out her thumb especially.
"There's a dragon lying in the water.”
And so there is. 
The Skerries dozing in the swell.

Perhaps once it lumbered, 
this great leather bird.
Perched on cliffs,
flinty like its beady eye.
But now it only slumbers.
Surrounded in blue.

Above and before.
Blue, blue, blue.
The sight of it is 
a vacuum, pulling your lungs
tight to the edges,
flooding you with oxygen.
Lifting you onto your tiptoes,
until you might almost 
catch the tail of the zephyr.

It is the only living dragon now - 
the flitting breeze.
Cerulean above. Beryl below.

You take her hand and tumble 
together over the rocks, 
looking for treasure
in every filmy pool.
Soft speckled limestone boules
like ancient eggs nestled 
on tangled nest of kelp.
Rubbed glass nosing out 
from the sparkling grit.
Tokens to pay the river man.

But no. Not yet.
The dragon is sleeping. 
There is nothing to fear.
Instead, breathe.

Hear the trailing fingers of frothing tide
mussing up the shifting shale.
Take a gulp of the mineral air.
A tonic filled with light.
Feel the space around you that does not end. 
Take her small dimpled hand in yours 
and let your heart take flight.