September 2018

The evenings are closing in…

Day is shutting down,
noise and clamour packed away.
Silence trickles in.



September rain…

The morning dissolves.
Sky, trees, time, run together.
Rowan berries bleed.



Passing the famine grave on Killary…

Connemara keens:
crop ridges line up like graves.
A raven laments.



Dark September nights…

A darkness so dark
it’s more presence than absence.
A silence that roars.