West of 500

a creative journal

On the Road in Inishowen

Wagtail, stone chit, black-headed gull,

bold tiny robin gathering sheeps’ wool

caught up in the wild rose

that grows by the old, winding roads

in Inishowen.


Rolling and shuffling, moving even in sleep.

Dreaming, perhaps, of running–

fast and effortless, thrumming with energy.

Dreaming, perhaps, of dancing–

I imagine she could dance forever.

Golden skin and golden hair streaming out behind her,

spread across the wind, the sheets, the pillow,

gleaming tawny-bright.

A strange lioness lies near tonight

and I lie still in silence.

On a Cold Winter Morning

In the hours before dawn

the kitchen is quiet, dark, but

for the grey strange light glowing through the windows–

moonlight, dawnlight, soft, barely not-light

to guide the deer across the snow.

Slowly we awake, pad from out our blankets to sit at the round table,

watch, and wait,

for the buck, the fawn, and the doe,

for the little cat that won’t come in despite the cold cold cold.


We whisper and sip at our coffee, listen to the Grandmothers’ stories

tucking our feet beneath us till the heater kicks on and the sun

finally peaks through the trees–gold, pink, bright streaks and shadow.

We look out the windows again.

Their are tracks across the whiteness that no human made.

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