Masked Native

Graffiti In The Gazebo

We shall not cease from exploration.

And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started,

And know the place for the first time– T.S. Eliot ‘Little Gilding’, Four Quartets

There is a gazebo at the end of the garden. It overlooks the estuary. When the tide is in, sea water pools around seaweed covered rocks below. The sound is peaceful, meditative. I drink an early morning coffee in here, listen to little birds sing their songs and watch a spider spin his fragile life between timber beams. Pressing the point of a cheap bic biro into the soft wood of a weathered wooden desk, left behind by previous owners, I carve my initials. I have never felt compelled to leave my name anywhere before, the mark is faint, maybe I will use something sharper, later.

Beyond the hedge, a rolling mist drifts in from Hook Head, devours a cargo ship on its way to safe harbour in the Port of Waterford. Like a lost soul, the muffled sounds of engines trail far behind. High tide swells urgently now. The mist is lifting. The sun is just above the horizon and rising.  The estuary shimmers and sparkles like a crystal pathway beneath a fishing boat on its way to open sea. A small thing moving slowly towards its goal.  Reluctantly, I leave the Gazebo and its world of quiet contemplation.