Dole Day Blues

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.