He knew.
Even as a boy in his father's currach,
He knew. He knew that the sea
would someday grasp him in her terrible teeth, destroy him,
drown him in her salted grief, her embrace wet and wide
as the slow dawn of death in the eye of a fish.
He knew. He knew it as he built the currach, as he
curved each slender rib of wood and covered it
in canvas as bleak and black as a mourning gown
pulled over slender shoulders. He knew
that someday it would buck like a colt
and hurl him into dark water. He knew.
Even as he married me, loved and laughed
and poured a baby into me, he knew.
He knew as he surged through sea-swell,
seeking to fill his nets with silver.
He knew, and still he refused to learn to swim,
for the struggle against his lot could only prolong his agonies.
He knew. He knew our lives together could never be long.
That by the time our child was born he would be long gone.
He knew. He knew. He knew.