What I Miss

What I miss

Most days I walk Claddagh Quay
to commune with white swans.
Walk the exposed promenade
and the park prickly
with psychedelic green grass
defining the wide expanse
of water   sky
the misty coastline of Clare;
a solitary wind blasted tree
etched against a tumult of clouds;
shimmer of watery air.
        Here in the northern
hemisphere a trawl of winds
keens the plight of refugees
adrift in southern oceans.
And as autumn crinkles air
I sometimes miss
smell of gumleaves;
languid heat;
manic birdsong
but I don't miss
our official sanction
of rampant racism.