A Connemara Pastoral
I. Dawn
The green door opened before the sun had fully committed itself to the day, and Moss was through it in the same breath, as though the door and the dog were parts of a...
Sharing Grief
The fire in the front room burned hot and steady, throwing its colour halfway across the worn pattern of the rug before the cold reasserted itself near the window. Snow had been fallin...
Sand, Stone, Tide
The tide had not yet decided to come for it, and so the castle stood, for now, with the particular dignity of a thing that does not know its hour.
Maire had built it the way she...
A Man Walks down the Street...
The road is longer than I remember roads being. It may be that I have not walked one in some time — not like this, not with a suitcase and no particular arrangement wa...
The Pensive Ondine
The branch had grown out over the water at an angle that suggested surrender — not defeat, but the particular yielding of something that has stopped pretending gravity does not ex...
A homage to Yeats
There is a particular quality to the light that falls over the west of Ireland in the dying hour of the day. It does not simply illuminate; it transforms. It reaches across the bog...