There is no sign of even a ripple in the water or a coastline across the bay. I can only see as far as the low drystone wall built of dark grey Liscannor flags.
There is no wind. Not even a blade of grass moves.
The dunes of Lahinch out the dining room window are invisible. It is quiet and peaceful. Very welcome after a sudden, tragic bereavement that shattered life as we knew it.
There is an almost imperceptible lifting of the fog. Still no sign of the horizon where the bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond meet the sky.
Without seeing them, I know the three miniature ponies in the field in front of our house will be grazing. Their long manes fall over their eyes like the fringe of Sacagawea’s deerskin dress.
The cows on the other side of the ancient hairy rock wall will appear later in the day. They always do. Like clockwork. Rain or shine.
The sweet smell of wild honeysuckle reminds me of my childhood. While walking to elementary school I used to pause and try to drink the nectar of the tiny tubular golden flowers.
But there is nothing more intoxicating than hearing the magical sound of the skylarks out on the golf course in Lahinch before darkness falls. They trill and whistle while suspended directly overhead. I crane my neck to spot them, but they, too, are invisible.
It is like the illusion of a ventriloquist — they project their constant stream of wondrous warbling birdsong while hovering hundreds of feet in the air or in flight.
A silent goodbye to all that is not seen and will never be seen again.
