after Hopkins Yes, I’ve spent black hours fretting but today, I slipped into my car, drove to Port Quinn’s turquoise triangle of luminous sea, its curves and crevasses of a coast unafraid of complexity, down lanes that have no passing places, yet, we passed nevertheless, through tunnels of flickering mustard, bright splodges of mallow, grass dense and smooth, lifting like the girl’s hair in the breeze. She was mending a broken wall in the sunshine, smiled hello— yes, I’ve tasted bitterness and sour self-loathing but today, I slipped into my car