What is it, Anu?
This water pouring across the plain
Of Desmond to the sea.
Down the limestone steps of karsted hills.
Through furrowed fields and into the wild Atlantic’s glare,
Below the sculpted cliffs of Clare.
Rushing now with meter in our steps.
Gunneling. Running, and forever onward.
Why me? Why did you love me back there?
Why did you hide our passion in your shawl?
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