It’s evening. In Ireland. I sit on a bench with a book about the Blasket Islandman. My leather notebook and pen in my hand. The air is so fresh, it blows gently on the back of my neck. Birds are calling to one another, some softly, some quite ferociously. Some, in what seems to be a nagging tone. They are the conversation floating on the air in this otherwise quiet spot. Flowers bloom.
This place, I pass through it, but it will remain.
I find a voice here. An emotion that I find no where else.
It saddens me to know that when I leave, that voice, will also remain.
Thank you for being here and being so patient with me while the comments are turned off.