Beneath a Cliff

George Ryan

They were next door neighbors on Long Island,

had gone to Catholic school together

and all their days had heard about Ireland.   

They bought air tickets on Saint Patrick’s Day

and on a cloudless afternoon clambered

among the rock pools beneath a tall cliff

on the other side of the Atlantic.  

The waves were small and they did not notice

the tide come in until the pools began

to fill.  The way they had come was flooded.  

Only gulls and seals knew where they were now.  

They phoned for help.  The cliff face blocked their calls

on the landward side.  One phoned her mother

over the ocean and said now that she

knew she was going to die, she could feel

sorry for the trouble she had caused and

hoped to be remembered fondly after.  

Her mother was concerned that she was drunk.  

Joe is on shore leave in San Diego, 

her mother said, and as a navy man

he’ll know what to do.  She phoned him.  He phoned

the Irish navy.  Two women beneath

a cliff, the tide incoming.  No problem.  

The seawater was now above their knees.  

They waved to the helicopter.  Both pilots

were handsome and no older than they were.    

One said, I heard your mother found you here.