I swim with some old ones at Portnablagh pier.
Each day at eleven, we gather.
The sky’s often gray and the wind quite severe,
As into the water we swagger.
There’s Orla and Aileen, Fiona and Ned,
Liam, and Aisling McBride,
Clare from Clonmore and Tim from Horn Head
We all miss Dermot, who died.
When I was young, I avoided the cold.
A behavior I sorely regret.
Now everything hurts, like it does when you’re old
But I’ll swim any water that’s wet.
I shriek and go under the bone-chilling swell.
We all judge each other quite wacky.
I can’t help but think of death and farewell
Like always I do when I’m happy.
The days they pass by inevitably,
But dark nights cause me no fear.
When the final tide turns, my last memory will be
Swimming into the sun at the pier.
