I stood again
on Strangford’s shore,
the wind as aye
cuffing my face,
taunting me.
But I had faced down
that old enemy before.
My gaze was on Scrabo,
faintly clear across the lough,
no shadow cast on the ruffled water.
‘You have not changed’
I thought,
but life has changed me.
Now I can gaze at your outlandish shape
with that uncommon tower,
and readily turn my back.
I still love you, old woman,
but time
has cured me
of that incessant urgency
to waken each morning and see your face.