The Rings End Towers

a poem about the only inanimate objects in this fine country of Ireland I have feelings for

To be perched at the tip top of the tower. A vantage point any sniper would kill for, literally. Figuratively I’m a bird. Making my home here on the winch that resembles an iron hammock to escape the hectic inner city lifestyle merely by a turn of the head.  To a view of the sea. The bay to the right and the beach to the left of me. Often lost covered in a salty liquid mask dictated by the pull of a distant land. Red and white paint peeling, the texture quite like the feeling of a teenage acme neck. But this is it. This is where I feel at home, this is where I made my home. Exposed to Irish climate.  Some days blasted by sea breeze, some days’ time flies. Following the clouds, shadows race across ground and sky lines.  Knowing all the while someone in Dublin staring at my perch I feel like I’m helping cause a smile, at any giving time.