Frack tide The first time that ever I heard your notes I was on the beach in June’s Donegal. Far out to sea the lights of fishing boats outshone the stars and we toasted mackerel and drank whiskey. Out of the black beyond the sound of your voice calmed the waves fretting on the sleeping granite and the cold sand. We looked up and lost ourselves, forgetting time, tide, anything of daily order, freed from gravity, floating on music, dizzy with high Cs in gentle rapture then tranquillised by low E’s soft acoustic. The windless sea lay glassy, mirror flat holding the moon in pieces, white and fat.
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