sad disbeliever without feeling
beside a window
distorted by rain from
the second named storm of August

I watch three pure-white terns
brighter than
the delicate
grey of slender wings
that beat in the hover

rise in the gusts
then dive to tickle
the brown-foamed
storm-churned lough

no fish —
too deep for terns
safe too from roosting gannets
who know their limits in the
murky depth

still through wind and rain and foam
they skim and soar and hover
dive and rise
again and again
bringing life and beauty to the elements

I would ride the storm with them stealing
just a second of belonging as they do
but having arms instead of wings
I lift my pen
and thank them for the healing

Selected byKaci Skiles Laws
Image credit:Jessica Spengler

Cameron McClure doesn’t exist. He is the pen-name for a  permanently retired civil servant who lives in Northern Ireland and likes nothing better than competitive banter over a pint or two. He believes it will all come right on the night because he’s happier that way and no-one has yet proved him wrong though a lot of well-meaning people try to for some reason.