Donegal Morning.............. The cliffs wake slow, their edges pressed against a sky wild with distant light— a hush you can taste in your mouth............. Here, the wind isn’t an idea, it’s a half‑spoken prayer that scours your face, then tucks itself behind your ears............ In the fields, the grass stands stiff like old soldiers at attention, while peat smoke drifts from cottages, smudging the air with memory........... A single sheep silhouette stands on the slope— patient, timeless, a witness to centuries in its wool........... You dip your hand in cold spring water, let it fill your palm and slip through— tell me that’s not enough to feel alive............... No pomp, no ceremony— just the restless sea smashing rock, sea‑salt tang in your lungs, and the quiet promise that the world will go on here, steady as a heartbeat, harsh as the wind, gentle as the light on a Donegal morning.

t’s Just the Light..... They say the morning is a silver coin slid under your door—no miracle— just this—warm weight in your pocket, a gentle nudge to open your eyes........ No grand sweep of destiny here, just the slow breath of dawn brushed across a kitchen table where mugs steam in the soft hush........ A bird taps the window like a small preacher with one message: “Stay, listen—life is here.” And what is life if not the quiet insistence of dew rolling across grass, the measured drip of the sink, the hum of day beginning......... You don’t need fireworks to set your heart on fire— just that slanted morning beam, caught in the dust motes like a choir of tiny lanterns......... When the world outside rattles your bones, close the door, stand still, breathe deep. Notice the light laying itself flat on the floorboards—plain, patient, lasting. That’s enough.

Under the Quiet Sky............. The earth bends low in the damp of evening, Grainfields whispering as if to know The weight of silence we carry, Cracked hands smoothing the fading sun............ I walk the lanes, where the hedgerows curl like old stories, Their thorns reaching out to hold the sky in place. Each footstep is a word, Each breath a promise made To the hills, to the dust, To the unspoken things we never say aloud............ The brook runs on like time— Unhindered, unbothered, A slow song through green shadows That only the worn understand............. Somewhere, far off, A lark threads its song through the cool air, Its voice a thread that ties my heart To what has been, to what might never be again. I wait for dusk to answer, But it, too, keeps its distance.

Whispers Through the Ashen................Pines The sky folds softly at the edge of dawn, Where the hills, in silent echoes, draw their breath. Between the crests, where shadows linger long, I hear the faintest murmur of a death. The wind, like fingers on a forgotten harp, Plays songs of seasons none remember now. The pines, so weathered, fold beneath their scars, Their roots are tangled in the earth's dark brow. I walk alone along this crumbling path, The stones beneath my feet are old and cold. In every crack, a memory's ghost, its wrath Too quiet for the world to ever hold. The years are whispers in the ashen leaves, That drift like dust on long-forgotten graves. Yet still, I walk, as if the heart believes The soil beneath me yet will lift and save. But all around me, in the amber light, The earth keeps secrets no one dares to speak. Each step, a prayer; each breath, a quiet fight, For moments lost and promises too weak.