A Wreck of Gulls.

I have before mentioned the two small book-fairs that occupy Howth village each Sunday afternoon, mostly its where treasures can be found and indeed regular customers get spoiled with first options on new boxes of books.

This time of year is when the gulls are encouraging the young to leave their nests and head out to sea, the boiling humidity and swirling grey closeness make the crèche loud and dramatic. Sea-birds run through Yeats and Joyce as tropes and images, especially Yeats whose doomed desire for Gonne was represented often by the squaking gulls up at Howth head where they walked out.

I cannot think of a Yeats’ poem off the top of my head to publish here (now) unfortunately, but I am so glad that the National Library exhibit is continuing for I was able to bring the little one in to show her the Lapis and sword  of Sato this last week.

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