Hard wind on the turn at Cappaghmore. You drive on, on the cusp of light, along the old road past Mortyclough. To think it’s taken me a lifetime to cool…
Lacking an ordained task, I sit in the blue chair facing south, rain on the circular field past Ballyhaine, rifts of blue opened by the wind, a taper of baling…
Oughtmama and the mists of late February fade Turlough Mountain and Moneen to a landscape of silhouettes in sheer cascade, only the immediate clear and nameable. I live here now…
My father would come this time of year the hawthorn needled into flower the sycamore and elder in full leaf to relish a call that ravelled him back in time.…