Swimmingly

 It’s on days like this

It’s on days like this I feel blessed

To live in dear Glenageary

The valley of the sheep in Irish

That leads all the way to DunLaoghaire. 

A gentle twenty minute stroll 

To the small beach in Sandycove 

That acts like a magnet to swimmers

The swimmers who swim in the cold. 

It’s sunny but chilly this March day

With a wind whipping in from the North

The ladies are here in their Dry Robes

For me a blast from the past. 

I remember the cold early mornings 

The bracing swims of the eighties 

When some men went bathing nude

At the forbidding fierce Forty Foot. 

Eventually the women arrived 

And forced the men into their togs 

Mind you there wasn’t a lot to be seen

When it all had but disappeared. 

In the words of Joyce years before

The waters were scrotum tightening 

That and the waves were frightening

For only the strongest of souls. 

So now the Harbour is filled 

With hair tied up in neat buns

Ne’er a man to be seen

Or anything else somehow.