where we stopped to find the epitaph,
it seemed just right that we were lost
in rain that pounded the car bonnet

and sounded like a horseman passing by,
his destination further on where sea-wreck
and sand-castle each cast a cracked shadow

and the ocean learned to dance like Crazy Jane
between the shores of here, there
and the islands where John Synge
walked on air, heard the true vernacular.