No Place like Home
The sea had been hard on him that day, the swell rising grey and indifferent under a sky that gave nothing away. But as the boat turned for home now the choppy water settled by de...
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...
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 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...
A Fisherman's Tale
The village existed in that peculiar geography where land surrendered to sea without ceremony, where houses huddled against the wind like penitents. Thomas Carrick had lived there...
The Standing Stones
The cottage smelled of damp stone and the pine tar her grandmother had used on the door frames, and underneath both of these the older smell of turf, which had not been burned in...