Incubator

Egg incubator - just in case.

Preoccupations

A treasure hunt for warm eggs/perfect pub/sweetest village/largest lough/sweetest treat/greenest green/unsaid sentences/right decisions.

Airing woes

Airing woes is gladdening.
The air is clean with worry abandon.
The sultry June light cleanses, seduces, takes me out of myself, carries me through the long grass, tousles my hair, paints me a picture, reads to me, walks with me, helps me to bury left-laid eggs, takes a deep sea breath and sighs.

I'm wasted on you

May I be excused (again)

This soft evening light can't last.
The light shapes move towards me, shaping me, threatening impermanence.
Nothing lasts.
It's the moment of optimism for nocturnal possibility and the relief I survived another day.
Quiet descends, my tears sting, despite being eyeliner free/loveliner free.
Red cockrel wattle/displays of courtship.
Permanently marked names of animals on aging hand/desire to be loved by goats.

May I be excused

Bon jour, I arrived with high spirits and a pinch of trepidation to the far flung reaches of Annaghmaconway, Co. Leitrim on Wednesday evening to the loving maison djeribi small holding. The sun cooled night air welcomed me on my virgin Ireland visit. I met the 38 residents (34 animals, 4 of the loveliest humans, + 9 soon to be hatched eggs), ate home made cheese on freshly baked bread, dipped in a perfectly soft-boiled egg. delicious. I spent Thursday & Friday listening carefully to advice on goat management, shy donkey nurturing, chicken curfews and nursery runs, cat diets, winding road directions in the turquoise left hand drive twingo, but most of all sharing in the excitement of the imminent exchange with Mari-Aymone of 'The Institute of Life Wonderful'. We will be writing about this most ingenious mutual fusion of 'life wonderful' on a dedicated blogette. Details will follow at some point, until then, some readers may be pleased to hear that I've lost the impulse to cry in the Deli aisle (there's little time between giving piggy backs in the long grass/being led to secret willow cabins in the bog wood). I'm on my own now and ask the full moon to not let any little fellas die on my watch.

Manchester to Cloone

Harmonic music box charts the journey from here to an-otherness, planting a pip of excitement with each exhalation. The song of Manchester to Annaghmaconway is poetic, optimistic, the 'Institute of Life Wonderful'. I hear it again less far from home, in the music box magic of Irish folk songs, singing bon voyage, don't look back. No preparation needed this time, I’ll fly by the seat of my pants and be there with books, animals, pencils, parchment, bread, time and music. Clever Piano Migrations & Wonderous Hannah Peel