Like the Rain in Burma

The narrow stone pier

once part of a pleasure

ground, points

like a grey finger

into Lough Boderg

and at its end

I stretch myself out

and lie on the flat

of my back

in an attempt

to soak up any solar

heat where a gunmetal

Leitrim sky converges

with water and only

the faint sounds

of lapping, clucking

gently against stone

to remind us of the

surrounding silence.

Mother and daughter

join me in stretching out

and from on up high

we might seem

as a family fallen

from the sky and

in that moment

of recovery,

simply breathing,

listening and taking it in,

I ask my daughter

what the sounds are like,

and she replies,

Like the rain in Burma.