Peach clouds & furze in my field of vision;

the cliffs, the gulls, Kinsale! Who frescoed this sky 

with weekend, blushing perfectly, & I would die  

for this green green grass —

would it die for me?

See how my heart is like a swimming pool —

how cool a splash each look at something beautiful —

   even the private golf course can’t 

   colonise the view, so I turn to look: 

my tiny friends against the static blue;

my boyfriend stooping in the purple dulse;

over him humped cliffs of golden barley;

how enormously orange the sun convulses

to a sliver of itself, & how night is so clear

I become a pure eyeball for the constellations

& the moon’s cream gulp. No dreams of emails

come tonight. No floating text, no faces bleared

by blue light & thumb. In the morning the sun 

sears Saturday to earth. A small black crab

sidles out of sand to eat my boyfriend’s

feet, as onto knuckles, onto lap, 

onto blanket, onto sand, a whitely

dripping ice-cream. No clouds, only sky;

a pink burn amalgamates the freckles  

on my boyfriend’s neck and my eye turns crystal

out of joy at all these vivid totalities, 

such as this blue unbroken sea of no armadas 

today, but maybe tomorrow, & glittering,  

like a diamond that cuts the calendar open.