Ireland, I see, will pay me eighty-four
thousand euros just to go and live
on a coastal island. Dublin, say no more!
I don’t care if the tide will cut me off
from land for several hours every day.
Or if I have to spend your grant restoring
a small stone hovel. Or raise sheep or hay
or ducklings. I don’t care if life is boring
because there’s no TV or internet.
Don’t care about the frequent need for macs.
You offer solitude. And I would bet
you wouldn’t charge a poet income tax.
I don’t care what amenities are lacking.
Just offer me an island. I’ll start packing.