Easy to see there's no living out there 
on that seeming solid continent 
the clouds make, but in it 
I am seeing figures I can recognise 
running like horses in shallow water 
and waving up at me, their dead weight cast off 
as if they ran on the baked strand at Bettystown 
that summer the sun never stopped shining-- 
my mother and my father racing 
by the sea's edge, splashing themselves 
and one another with light. They are light 
as air, bodies hardly touching any surface, 
white legs flashing, the bright water 
breaking up at them and tipping 
their ankles with platinum 
foamy wings. They are all arms and smiles, 
a ripple of skin and well-being, 
waving for the invisible camera 
and waving back to where the baby 
sits in his pram on the strand 
squinting out at their brilliant figures 
and the way they break light 
by waving back at him 
in his seat of judgement, 
tossing their voices over and over. Now 
from the plane window 
I can glimpse through cloud-breaks 
the scumbled water under us 
and soon we're in clear air 
and all the cloud angels are lighting out 
for other regions: they'll see us and 
gaze after us, friendly and remote 
as always, yawning a storm 
somewhere else or propitious gales, 
but keeping a mild weather eye 
on those young parents playing like children 
on the calling shore, who are restored 
to the pure possibility of their lives, 
the long good day unfolding for them 
slow as smoke in water, vivid as a pinch 
of crushed sea salt, and nothing to be forgiven.