A Man Walks down the Street...
The road is longer than I remember roads being. It may be that I have not walked one in some time — not like this, not with a suitcase and no particular arrangement waiting at the other end. The leather handle is warm in my grip. I bought this case in a shop whose na...
The Pensive Ondine
The branch had grown out over the water at an angle that suggested surrender — not defeat, but the particular yielding of something that has stopped pretending gravity does not ex...
A homage to Yeats
There is a particular quality to the light that falls over the west of Ireland in the dying hour of the day. It does not simply illuminate; it transforms. It reaches across the bog...
Carrying the Lantern
The Guardian had carried the lantern for longer than the alley had existed.
That was the first thing — the thing that distinguished his fatigue from any human version of the w...
Messenger from a Past Love
The morning had arrived without permission, as mornings tend to do when one is not particularly eager to meet them. Beth had lain awake since four, watching the ceiling's...
Wings of Light
I did not mean to paint a theology. I meant to express in images something I could not name.
Most of us carry it — that particular longing that has nothing to do with anything that h...