Each day now the water is colder,
the fish further out under the birds
as the Gulf Stream swings toward Cork
where sons and daughters stand with the wind
on their faces looking out to sea,
children of my father's father's father and
me with the wind at my back on the far
side of the Atlantic wondering at the strength
of the blood to feel it still in spite of it all,
my ghost soon to drift on the river in the sea
toward home where we always have been
where we will convene again
for the division of the spirit
and again and again
as long as men last.
