The Cliffs of Moher

The jeers and screeches of nesting seagulls

drowns the chatter of tourists

the beeps, whirs,

and shutter-flash-clicks of cameras.

Green moss clings to sea-leaning rocks

like hastily-applied icing on a too-warm cake.

The strata, colored like sand,

dark chocolate, rust, and hues in between,

look as if a giant carved them

with chisel and hammer.

The blue sea crashes, white and foamy,

at the base of the cliffs,

patiently seducing—

sirens tempting continental sailors to their graves.

Above the heads of awestruck adventurers,

coasting on the warm April breeze,

a bumblebee collects nectar

from wildflowers growing on the edge of death.