New Triangles. Wear the new triangles, behind the chain-link fences, orchestra of crying children, dread anthem of the summer sun, Separate the little ones, no need to sew the yellow to their shirts, they wear their badge forever, on their skin, Build the wall and mend the wire, with bricks of fear send it higher,... Continue Reading →
Tá scéal an-Éireannach agamsa. Scéal faoi crunniu seans i na scáileanna teach solais. Dé hAoine seo caithe a tharla é. Bhí fear agus me fein ag comhrá í nGaeilge mar bhí ár gcuid páistí ag imirt i bpáirc. 'Cá as tú?' arsa mise. ‘An Spidéal’, a deir sé. ‘Rugadh mé ansin’, a deir mise. ‘Caithfidh... Continue Reading →
Toll. Bright tolls that hideous bell, varnished edges biting at the collarbone, unprotected by the cheap white shirt, damp from the last wearing of the cassock, burning incense from the dark interior, lacquer from the brass handles, cloying and heavy in the heat, last night’s fighting as raw, as the nervous marks on my left... Continue Reading →
The Island.
Angels voices soaring to roll off the ceilings curves,numb hands pressed against grieving ones,roaring winds pulling at the aged stones,no threat to peace or pain inside the vault,sharing the seeping warmth of love departed.
The lintels still carry chisel strikes,left by rough hands that toiled,a hundred years of rain have yet,to find their way inside,each stone as tight together as the families,who sit in hushed mourning rows beneath,
Cobh -The Gateway to Munster.
Cobh is the most beautiful seaside town in Ireland, looking out over the vast Cork harbour where the mighty River Lee runs down to meet the ocean. A place of rich history, which has stunning natural beauty and it is where the world’s largest liners come alongside the Deep Water Quay. The huge floating palaces carrying thousands of tourists each year are vast in scale and they tower over the brightly painted fishing boats which set out from the small little piers and coves with their pots & nets seeking to bring home the bounty of the waters outside the harbour.
Coaxing the Fire. The poker methodically at its task,guided by the sure and steady hand,rosy glow of the embers coaxed back to flame,nursed from deathbed to resurrection,throwing warmth out over worn tiles and a grey mottled cat.
Béal na mBláth
I often wonder how that young Private felt,when he saw the blood flow from Collins,to mingle with the dirt in Beal na mBláth,struck down by a ricochet,the echoes still reverberating,ringing through the decades.
Skellig.
You say I never write for you,you say it with sad eyes.so I have tried to write for you,to help you stop awhile and smile.
Paper Never Refused Ink! 
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