A Sense of Place
In this week of turnings, feasts and festivals, time is out of time. Today feels like tomorrow’s last week, or yesterday’s fortnight. I’m down the rabbit-hole, pocket-watch in hand.
“I’m Late, I’m Late!”
(I also just spent the day in West Cork, where we were trapped with a flat tire. But that’s another story.)
It snowed here in Cork this week. The sheep in Mr. McCarthy’s field were huddled in the ring fort when I went out to explore it. Their fleece blending with the white blanket on the ground. While some of the other farmers have lambs already, Mr. M’s ewes are still waiting.
The lane-way was magical, dusted with shimmering powder. The birds were out foraging and the silence was melodious. Since you couldn’t be here to experience it with me, I hope you enjoy what my own eyes saw.
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