Danger

Ah, the sea. Again. And the docklands, my stamping ground. I have photographed this spot before, though never blipped it. It's where a certain part of Dublin Port's heavily industrialised acreage terminates. The last few days have been like this, skies shifting from sun to rain (or hail), from bright to dark, feathery 'high-builded cloud' to heavyweight battleship-grey hulls scraping above the horizon. I sat in my wee car near this helpful sign and wrote a bit, thought a bit, bobbed and shimmered between: a whole armada of part-articulated thoughts, some of them raw: my mother of course, again, now and forever my patron saint of horizons. Raw but hardly dangerous (no need to borrow that sign): a reminder that I'm alive, and that she lives in me.