On a ridge of Cork's northern outlands, blackened trees perform their ancient rites. They scarify the hollowed skies with their sharpened tips while snake-thin sentinels watch to the city and the frothing oceans beyond, Their solstice-cleansing scrapes on the psyche of the receding sun. He turns from winter in an explosion, momentarily bleaching the horizon and all else beyond. He has stepped back from the brink. The days will lengthen once again.
creating tales of things and other places