Renvyle, Connemara

Flowers, dandelions, don’t dance in the wind – they shake like epileptics fitting, catatonic single yellow eyes staring wildly into the sky. The grasses join in maniacally, incessant in their mocking, monstrous caricature of the dandelions’ plight.

In this great turning of cycles, wheels within wheels, the universe’s endless rhythms; I wait for a sign, a word, a whisper … a clue. And receive none. So, the best I can do is continue taking steps along the road in front of me. Why this road? Because it’s the one I’m on.