“…then, as quickly as it’s come, it all disappears” (Snowqueen) and as if the Earth has shifted its axis, we find ourselves no longer in that beautiful, pristine Arctic landscape but wake up in a temperate, monsoon swamp! Even the butterflies are confused, waking, blundering groggily around suddenly warm rooms…
Feathery din in
paper nightshade tympana.
Rain drums on the roof.
The ice and snow have taken their toll on the hillsides and verges, it’s all looking a little knackered now…
clump in tarnished, ragged stands.
Out walking the hills in clear, crisp days…
Hidden snipe grouses.
Jags away in sudden flight.
Not there. There. Not there.
Ag caint is ag comhrá is ag argóint i gcónaí faoi chruacháis na Tíre bhocht seo…caithfead go mbeadh níos mó ná san?
Constant (as the frost in Winter!) are the endless talks, conversations and debates about the financial state of the country…surely there’s more to life?
Tuile NA MAra. [The tide is flooding.
Pobal Tíre mar Chanute The population, Canute-like
le chosa fliucha! with wet feet!]
Scamaill ag méadú. [Clouds are gathering.
Agus sinne gan phingin, And us without a penny,
gan scáth fearthaine! or an umbrella!]