– “7- Galway”

My breath warms the air

beside Galway bay,


6 AM; I exhale fog.


It drifts from my bottom lip

like whispers to the morning as I run,


rushes from me

like the current when the wind raises its voice.


The bay shivers,

embraced by my breath –

waits for the sun to inch

above the lighthouse up ahead.


– “6- Dublin”

Here, histories mingle

like fingers meet at a palm.


Early mornings in the city, waking –

I run along that wrinkle between thumb and wrist,

cobblestone walkways

laying ground

to highrise McDonald’s signs

and German tour guides,

foreign sneakers pounce

to capture the city as it wakes –

with flash.


The valley between fingers

crinkle with littered paper –

sidewalks lined with the Irish Times


yesterday’s stories crunch under

rushing business feet,

ink blotched from last night’s beer –

mâché carpets of crosswords

and local marriage announcements.


And Joyce orders a pint

at the base of my palm –

Wilde writes

on a stool beside my forefinger –

and Mr Kavanagh reminds

to inquire about him

in a hundred years’ time.


I keep them

cupped in my hand

for the drive back to my Galway.


“5- Dingle”

Today I tread the hem

of Ireland’s summer dress;


Inch Beach

billowing in breeze, brisk by seaside –

sly peaks beside a timid tide –

beige sand iridescent under

layers of saltwater and sun.


I ride on the hills of her overskirt,

fabric patched with emerald and brown,

spattered with a pattern of wildflowers

and herds of grazing sheep,

and hostels for the wanderers to sleep –

polka dotted along patches of jade tweed.


I breathe her in

and her crisp perfume

river-runs across me,

threads through my skin

until I’ve become stitched

in her fabric, countryside.


“4- Cliffs of Moher”

I’ve captured the cliff’s whistle in my curls.


That crash of the tide

against a shoreline of pebbles

histories below me –

the way it reverberates

between the cliff’s curled lips

and carries up

in gusts

to hum for me.


I’ve let my hair down

to embed that echo

and keep it caught near my ears,

to listen

when I climb back

down, down, down

from these wondrous heights.


“3- Ennis”

The toy box town

a couple hours’ drive down

can hear

echoes of the fiddles

busking street side –


Folk songs catch between


under tapping sean-nos toes –

slippery tunes

from splashing whiskey

and rain from the morning storm –


Fishermen anthems,

beer battered and caught

hook line and sinker.



“2- Clifden”

This town is a toy box.


Lego blocks of bars and coffee shops,

perfect square apartments

and pastel-colored complexes,

stacked edge to edge

with little lego people

milling between doors,

damp and dodging the drizzling rain.


“1 – Westport”


Bashful mountains

hiding under

billows of cloud,

like Ireland exhaled up from its base

and whispered secrets

carried in whips of white

to the sky.



When every moment

is a meditation

folding under

curling green

at the base of the hills

Galway Days

If my feet had been painted blue,

I’d have marked a welcome mat

parallel to the Galway bay,

toe prints


fabric crisping in the Irish air –



still and smooth like butter

churned the night before –

taken from the fridge

for an early Irish breakfast

to fuel the busy workday ahead.


These quiet mornings

are cuts of cow tongue

hung from braided wire

in a conditioned room –


their fumes

latch onto recycled air

in search of an escape route

from the silence.

Extraordinary Things

On days like this

the unkempt edges of my perspective

are tailored with gilded lace,

stitched in such a way

that I can’t look at it straight

but its iridescence

reflects into my vision

and I watch the world

with gold in my eyes.