a writer of sorts
Steam driven exiles, ragged, beaten by absentee english, leave a tear far behind them - its paraffin eye scanning stony atlantic tar ar ais tar ar ais It calls, blazing through sea-fret to refugees mourning, as they sink into black keen horizon It ignores the plastic exuberance of yachts dancing around an charraig aonair. tar ar ais tar ar ais Sabatier hulls slice through the surface tension shearing a canvas and polyester swathe, embroidering the waves with temporary threads of amity – fair weather friends. Ní thuigim cén fáth nach bhfeicim ach tú ag imeacht. tar ar ais Tar ar ais go dtí an t-oileán uaigneach.
A strange one it that deals obliquely with the irish potato famine and what gits the English were, the Fastnet Yacht Race (or is it the lonely Island Yacht Race now?) but it’s mostly about the lighthouse missing those people who fled the potato famine and is waiting for them to come home.
Apologies for the potentially dodgy gaelic. Google translate isn’t the most reliable of aids…