We arrive at dusk, veterans 
of this sandy cove, where we used 
to picnic on the check blanket—
now we welcome you here, small girl. 

In a temperature twenty degrees 
below that of your Colombian home, 
you chase waves gleefully, 
throw seaweed and build a castle. 

Dublin Bay shrinks into 
the eve of Christmas Eve 
as a handful of swimmers emerge 
from the water, dance with towels. 

We, your childless great-aunts 
and uncle, learned to swim here, 
graduated to the Forty Foot, its granite 
outcrop our beloved Dad’s haunt. 

Later, photos of you negotiating 
Swiss snow—another first—
while your sand prints 
dissolve into the Irish Sea. 

Bio: Maeve O’Sullivan