Sometimes morning breaks
before the hold has found the frost.

We wake dizzy-
flung into field where dawn’s breath
corners all that has been fearless
but will soon fall to fragile-

breath becomes touch becomes dew becomes done

running down the blade of grass regardless
of how much it will cut.

Sometimes morning breaks
and I am off already, running

through the long grass, twisting around all that lies uncertain

I feel the blades stab skin
that has just been cradled.

Buds of blood come to cloth
like colour cast into cotton fields,
in this early light of twists and truths
they look like roses but come close

and see how quickly they slip down the side of each blade.


All words by Damien B Donnelly.


Photograph from the wonderful Liz Cowburn at


  1. Hooray for the red rosehips, they love a wider audience 🙂
    — and thanks for giving me a moment of wonderfulness!

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