There is a beach several coves away
where broken pottery washes up -- nothing
particularly special -- cheap plates flung to bits.
Beautiful in their disarray, every year more,
and I gather pocketsful and place them
at the Altar Of Our Lady of Flotsam
on my kitchen windowsill. But flung from where,
and by whom? A deceived wife in splintered rage?
Fallen from a boat in a move from island to mainland?
Out of fashion teacups cast-off to sea?
My neighbor Pat tells of an elderly island man whose body
was strapped to a door and towed to town behind a dingy
when he died. (There are 365 islands in Clew Bay,
some as big as a wink.)
These shards remain a mystery.