There was a placelessness to it, which I liked best about it - the Way of the Cross. It somehow did not appear to belong any more than I did. With all of its winding bends of yew trees and rhododendrons, wild fuschias and brambles with glistening glossy blackberries, I could lose myself. I could … Continue reading Fáilte go Ros neamhlach (unfinished)
death
The Land of Leaning Pines
They are somber and wise,With roots which barely uphold them.Their bark and bones bending,Brittle, breaking . . . It is the damp season,their gunfire-like crack muted,in wait of the hot hard summer ahead. Lovely and leaning,With a strange restless readiness about them.It is time, or it will be soon. They have earned their wrinkles and … Continue reading The Land of Leaning Pines
Ardent Writing 