The West
Country
Fatigued
before we made Roundstone, we biked back to Ballyconneely, where we stopped
before we returned to Clifden. You swam and I sat in the rocks and watched or
walked on the sand in search of shellfish. There was thyme somewhere near—or
memory invents it. Your bare skin was a chilled Atlantic, red to the stones,
white as the sky. Something went wrong with one of the bikes before the wind
tried to hold us back from our Clifden refuge. But don’t you remember the wind
in your hair,
your breath
coming fast,
the sough
of the surf,
the sound of
the bicycle wheels—
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