I saw you, one morning,
blanketed in white,

a speckled canvas of virgin purity,
all colour lost out to a simpler shade of simplicity.
No more that magnificent mass of contrast and contradiction,
just quiet and gentle unencumbered distinction.

Distant laughter carried on a breeze
swirling round trees caught motionless in time,
branches bare but for the kind kisses of that slow falling snow.

I saw you like this, one ordinary morning,
as tears formed icicles on my face, snowflakes falling
from your skies to hide your valleys and hills

as my feet disappeared beneath the snow-white earth.

I saw you, like this, one extra ordinary morning,
and that long lost smile



All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Merry Christmas everybody, Dami xx



I whisper into wakefulness,

the body stirs before the brain, the blood before belief,
I curl into colder corners of the covers to encourage
skin to come round as sound slips in just before sight,

light pours into eyelids
slowly opening, toes slip out to inspect the season
but the soul knows the truth; I bear every season
in a single day;

a snowstorm
in the stench of summer, in moments overlapping,
burning flesh on ice cold streets (Paris can perish you
behind its postcard perfection), springs of hopeful holds
that fall to less likely,

there is an unbreakable blossom
in this heart that covers the precious particles,
like once perfect snowflakes that have since been shattered,
strings that have been strung;
strung out, strung up,

turned to taunt,

I recall the harmony
but am a stranger to the words we wound into songs,
stretched into surrenders.

Your calls now drown us both
from the far end of another ocean I thought to be tempered
with tepid time, phone floods forage where even distance
cannot dissipate the despair that settles on the floor beside me,
a shallow pool of strangulation after the hang-up that always feels
somehow lighter at your end.
So much falls away,

so much falls to the ground;
shattered shards no longer capturing its distant promise.
I watch the snowflakes catch the wind carefully, glisten for a moment
before it’s beauty losses breath on the trodden tracks
of these treadmills that take us to nowhere

and back again

as the bluebird sings her song
and the moon, even in the bright sky,
still retains its shadow, ever watchful, ever wondering
when we too will find our time,
in this fall,

to fall.


All words and collages by Damien B. Donnelly



Snow falls and the darkness drowns in silence,
a hush from the heavens falling, so slowly,
even crystals cry. Are these the tears
of angels weeping who’ve watched us, falling,
like this slow snow, like their tears, trembling?

Snow falls and there’s a stillness and still
all this silence between us. Bruises covered
in this cold cotton candy coating of fragility,
every day more freezing, more frozen,
just not enough to numb. Snow falls
and all paths disappear, I thought our tracks
ran deeper, like this winter, like this weight,
like this waiting, behind the window, behind
this glass I can’t see through, beyond the storm
falling, slowly. Snow falls and the sorrow
slips in, cold where there used to be comfort.

What happens to my tears, who will watch them
with wonderment like I look out now at the snow,
slowly falling, and think of angels?

Wasn’t I once your angel?

Are you watching at some slow distance
as these snowflakes cover my confusion?

In time, this too shall melt and be no more than memory,
even snowflakes fall for but a season. Snow,
falling, slow. Already wishing it was spring.

Even white is blue in the falling light.


All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly



I stepped into the storm and took the path between the pines,
and curved along the bank of which the riverbed defines.
I watched the falling snow bequeath a blanket on the bark,
the water formed a wave and then that wave became an arc.

I noticed how the birds had long since taken from the trees,
the current held no caution and the arc held no appease.
I stopped within the storm among the silent pillared pines
and held my breath by the bank as that arc unfurled its spine.
I watched the wave turn wing and saw the tide become a tail
and from the sky came down the snow on the wind, now a wail.
I’d stepped into the storm between the pines along the path,
and t’was there by the bank where I saw myth lay down with wrath.

A tarragon arose, had drawn breath upon the rivers,
a dragon of the snow and my skin awash with shivers.
I wondered if the birds had since foreseen in the future
this dragon from the tide find its form as snow-capped creature.
I tried to run, run away, from this basilisk of snow
but when its eyes fell open, I sensed that this was no foe.
I stood upon my tracks and felt my foolish fear descend,
no fire this beast did bare and no danger his snout distend.
This dragon of fair flakes, this mammoth mythos flushed in white,
no monster of the dawn and neither demon of the night.
I’d stepped into the storm and found my fate transform from snow;
for this vision from the water had a tale for me to show.

I’d fallen from the magic and been jolted out of joy,
had grown into a man who’d lost the dreams he’d held as boy.
But there in the clearing I sat and watched my fear take flight
from a ripple on the river as the dragon seized the night.


This poem was originally inspired by a photograph from the wonderful photographer Pete Hillman

and a nudge from the ever inspiration Liz Cowburn from Exploring Colour and this link brings you to Liz’s gorgeous wordplay poem based on the same photograph…


All words and drawings by Damien B Donnelly



Blue is the breath,
blue is the earth, morning, early,
the sky a clean canvas of white and the earth; blue,

a bed of frozen blues born from dawn’s breath,

a blanket of freshly fallen slow snow,
trembling along the hairs of the land, caught
in the calm before the crunch, before the footprints
mould into mud all that is now a myriad of mystery.

There is beauty in blue,
there can be beauty in being broken,
in time being frozen, in the breath baying.

I twist and tremble between these sheets
still fresh upon these old shadows, still crisp
over this drying skin. I twist and tremble through this season
to be unsure, falling into blue, into time, time is frozen

along with all that is born in this bed,
a blanket of fallen findings; some things
I thought to be more, some things
I hoped to mean less,

like loss; less loss,
less time, less breath, more blue,
the mystery is already moulding into mud.

Blue is the breath and slow,
soft as the early morning snow
so slow, awaiting nothing more than
the affirmation of an approaching melt.


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly





The sky is burning,

the last light eclipsed by the night
and we stop and stare like fools at its blaze,
not seeing within this gaze possibility falling
though our hands like snowflakes in a season
that has kept captive the summer.

The sky is burning

while we travel in taxis, all of us
back-seat partakers being driven down roads
we know not where they lead as our minds run
tattered threads along all the tracks we wanted to press
with our own print but we cannot choose a direction
like a snowflake cannot control its pattern.

The sky is burning
with a fine filigree of fire and ice,
with thoughts we try to catch hold of but flames
are ever changing as no snowflake is ever the same
and we take hold of other dreams others dreamt of
in other beds, under other skies blazing
through futile snowstorms and we melt,

like a snowflake
in the dry heat of an early autumn.


All words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly



I glisten to distract,
like a snowflake;

the sparkle before the melt.

Particles of fleeting perfection
floating through the hands of time,
falling through all these imperfections.
If only my clutch were tighter, truer,
if only I knew more of my own truth,
too many skins already slipped through,
too much prediction put on that perception
of perfection that can never be preserved.

A snowflake
cannot be caught intact. We cannot catch a cloud.

We cannot always clear the way for the truth.
Perfection: a twist of our perception,
a precious perspective from a single point
never again to be seen. What if it’s never seen at all?

Glistening like a snowflake, falling.

A snowflake can be a melting tear
or a tiny miracle on track to disappear.
Truth; an elusive illusion, a deathly desire
tenuously tied to what I present to you
and to how you perceive me.

To what we fear and what we are willing to reveal.

I glisten,
to distract attention
from all about me that doesn’t sparkle.


All words and designs by Damien B. Donnelly



Fragility falling

through fine flecks of fair filigree,
perfect patterns of individuality speckled
on imperfect individuals.

Snowflakes melt

on steaming skin thin on time,
too thick to break through, you cannot always sink
below the surface of an iceberg,

we cannot break through

all that lays beneath, all the lies below the surface,
it gets hotter the closer you come to the cold truth,
only in space can a spec appear spotless.

Fragility falling

through the folds of a snowstorm,
we are the swept and the sweepers, we must be swift,
icicles can injure, perfection can pierce.

I can be broken,

I can be better, I can be broken, but it takes time
to rebuild. I can be a snow-swept filigree
falling through the perfection of time

and time,

with all its perfection, with its constant movement
and minutes, is as fragile as that snowflake.


All words and drawings by Damien B Donnelly




I walk over drying leaves in this season of the fall,
crisp tissue freshly fallen under foot, less colour,
more contours, more concern to be connected

than to be a contrast. At first blast, I was off
and running from connection, the interjection
of other’s concerns, I was not to be collected
in a case, a case of you, this case of me, my case;
gone and grown heavier, come hear this heart
beating faster, this punchbag hung over from battle;
beaten, broken, twelve rounds but still standing,
still falling, like crisp tissue, torn into translucent,
still trying to get away from where it was caught

under foot. Foot, feet, these feet are faster runners
now, to make that racing heart seem slower,
a contemplation of a brighter pace to give way
to panic, a cessation to being a shooting star, shooting,
moving, eluding the truth of who we are, I am,
this case of me, it is okay to be encased in a connection,
to consider catching a breath, catching these contours,
those freshly fallen leaves drying in the rainstorm

I’ve been waiting for. And, as they crunch beneath
the slow shuffle of my shoes, I hear a sound familiar,
a song sung in my younger ears as I stamped first steps
in and over the cobbles of this city I have harboured
my heart to. Somethings stay attached, somethings
change their tempo and others fall beneath the soul.

‘Au revoir’ I whispered, and you smiled,

knowing I’d be back.


All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly.

A plane is waiting, wings are warming up. I have said my goodbyes, see you all in a few weeks when i have my feet on the ground again…