The waves of Whiteabbey kiss the pebbles on the shore,
leaving her glistening mark for all to see,
as I overturn the shiny rocks, looking for crabs.
Hours spent on that open beach,
finding new life in desolate hiding places.
My favourite place on Earth,
mixed blood blissfully unaware,
letting my shoes sink into the wet quicksand
longing for it to swallow me up, keep me there forever.
The old pier that would stand alone,
in the middle of the sea, parted long ago from his body
oh, what that old wreck must have seen,
through those troubled years,
spoken about in hushed tones around young ears
of the strange drums on a hot summer night
that mingled with the sound of the sea
as I lay, sound asleep
Granda would walk everyday down the shore
until he grew weak, sick and old like the pier
seven years gone
the waves of Whiteabbey carry on