Through the Lens of My Brother's Camera

Days and nights at Donegal,
the harbor swims past the lamppost
anchored at low tide.
A lighthouse blazes in a sea of gulls.
To the right, in bas-relief, baby lambs sleep
on a hillside beneath St. Brigid's cross.
And turning back to the foreground,
my eyes unveil
the four quarter mast of sails--
a loge quintet--
the tri-cornered winds of the isle--
and just to the left toward banks of sand,
a resting place,
the place wherein in daylight children
run along the shore.
As dusk settles, harbor lights dance.
Warm baked sandstone flank watertorn and river-weary blackened earth,
the land-a-lush green farther out
in the dry land.