Ah, me. I’m lost to Ireland and the Gaelic maid.
Dark, braided locks and purity of tone; and eyes that speak the sense that has no words. Silently weaving the language of deep knowing, too subtle for the tongue.
The coast of Connemara’s but a synapse and a woman’s voice away. The crash of surf, the smell of whiskey and of burning peat. The shadow-painted walls. Comfortable, safe and peaceful world, where hands and single consciousness entwine. The crackling turf, the simple song, a dozen hearts beat quiet and in harmony.
A dozen souls. Together. Strong. Soft. Certain and inseparable.
The world is at an end and endless.
(Just thought I’d like that to go out into the ether. It grew into a favourite short story, which is due to come out in an anthology by Drollerie Press some time - JJ)
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