Glenn Hubbard – 1 poem

Collecting Seaweed from Strangford Lough

It was on our doorstep and free.

Would raise fertility and yield.

Collecting it could have

been a blip on the chart,

enriched an otherwise arid

Ulster Sunday morning.

I imagine laughter as we slipped

and slithered towards the prize;

surprise and wonder at the sight

of so much exuberant life; a hand-

on-hip breather to take in the grandeur

of the skies and give the day its due.

But imagine is all. For I was doubtless

all business. Wanting it done, in the bag.

Concerned about the car. The morning

like some wash-day shirt, I ironed out the fun

after rinsing out the colours, not noticing

as they drained away into the ebbing tide.

Once the rain had washed off the salt,

I dug it in at an inch-perfect depth

while you sat indoors alone. Again.

Months later I took a spade to a bed.

There was the gain, what remained

of that morning with you: a thin, dark line.