November 2011

The last fuschia flowers are just hanging on…

Battered elegance.
Last fuschia gamely dances.
The show must go on.

Bruised ballerina
spins in tattered finery,
The last, lone fuschia.



Sliabh Carn, lom agus maol…

Carbadán an drom
seanduine maol, cancarach
i lár an gheimhridh.



Driving home at night along narrow country roads, in the corridor of your own headlights, the colours leap out at you.

Coppered side walls gleam
fox-bright in the starling dark.
Green winters to gold.



The woods are lovely, dark and deep, with impossibly vivid floor of mosses.

Unfeasibly green,
moss carpet glows soft velvet
in the piney dark.