Blue sky growing old,
sun sets into dusty pinks-
a hark for tomorrow

for today cannot be harboured any longer.

In this slow field
surrounded still by stilled life,
still the trees grow,

even daisies have returned after the mower’s menace
last Monday.

Single crow comes
to gather seeds
from once shadowed sections

of the garden I have only now revealed to the light.

Evening’s air is kissed
with today’s stagnation
but the sea is sweeping the shore

at the far end of the near lane where that dog barks next to buttery bush
that cannot concede its connection to the coconut.

And there, on the rock
once integral to the land,
I picture a mermaid, sitting,

combing the tide through her auburn hair in the hope that the current
can wash away the chaos

still carrying on
beneath the dusty pinks
of this ageing sky.


All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly



Come friends to gather at end of cycle
Spring is done and summer will have new song,
Time will tell of when it all went viral
Of distance that reigned and hold that was wrong.

Come friends to pressure pen upon the page
Thoughtless is time if man won’t leave his mark-
Sing of the stars we’ve lost upon this stage
Yonder moon’s slow to rise so night lies dark.

Come friends as we stand with light between us
Our fighters are saviours in this war’s ward,
Hold a lamp, a candle, come make a fuss
This hope’s not hungry for soldier or sword.

Come friends, let us sing, apart, united
Night is long but dawn will not be blighted.


All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly



Part 1

comes with birdsong these days
instead of street cars and sirens,
Blue Tit and Yellow Hammer
next to daisy, daffodil and dandelion
as the garden springs like never before.
Part 2

is found at the far end of the near field
because distance is dearer now as we take
slow steps around all we once overlooked
to see what this unsettling light can reveal
along those old paths life lost time for.


Part 3

comes with gentle lights that dance
in windows, flames reaching out further
than the stretch of our arms, to touch
other souls at the far end of other fields
recalling old paths while wondering
what tomorrow’s birdsong will bring.


All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly



We come considered, now, congestion side-lined
by concern, far from those racing rats
who reigned over the old normal, the old days,
the old ways. It’s not about choice anymore
but proximity- a courgette in place of an aubergine,
some Cheddar instead of Stilton, potatoes again
instead of that other, sexier, sweeter variety,
like those snowmen I built on the beach,
out of sand, back in half drowned summers
when I didn’t have a bucket to cast a castle.

Do you wanna build a… well, we make do.

We move, now, on the far sides of odd aisles
where no one overtakes, where we all stop
to let people pass by, first, before, before coming
too close- a new return to old graces highways
could do with heeding. This is how we move,
down familiarly strange aisles, planning recipes
to avoid disasters under masks, under gloves,
under pressure to keep our distance,
to keep going on, through this new normal.

Do you wanna build a… well, safer world?


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



I steal
deep into space, in the far field-
inches are miles these days
and miles can hold worlds.
I kick
imaginary balls into empty posts
and run tracks that dig circles
around the turns I cannot take.
The eye spots
white specs, like snowflakes, dancing
on the far side of deep ditches-
daisies making their own chains
les dents de lion
cast their own wishes out
into a breeze that knows no boundary.


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



Gold grows in many ways-
like how the soil can be pressed with seed,
how a daisy decorates that which has been deserted,
how the sun burns at a safe distance
or at least it did, once.
All is relative, now, to time-
I didn’t know what ozone meant as a boy,
or Wifi or gluten free or panic or pandemic
but there were days when I could have cradled distancing
when school corridors closed in too tight
on skin that hadn’t been taught tough.
Gold grows in many ways
as we find a new rhythm of crossing over into fields
once forgotten where daises make waves instead of chains
and farmers strive to find fortune
for us all in fields of food.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



When all we wanted was a little distance?

Starting out with a cushion on the sofa,
A pillow in between the folds twisting against us,
One word less
And then another.
Every move a single mile.

How all we wanted…

I wonder-
While watching shadows growing stiller
Beyond the window of this other room,
Here, at the end of all these miles,
At home with our wants,
Without a word-

If we’d held a little tighter
Would we have survived the distance now?


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



On comes the light
and I reach out for the taste of morning
in an orange orchid that unfolds a sash of summer’s stock
to tie its threads around the ears of anxious.
On comes the morning
and I stretch emerald strokes onto a light canvas
pulled out across grouchy grasses that cannot see hope
glimmering in far off fields.
On comes the light
and I strike rainbows into shivering streams
that take dreams off to open oceans where the breaths bays
just above the surface, waiting for us to dive back in, to the light.


All words and water colour painting by Damien B. Donnelly


Based on a Poetry Prompt from Cobh Readers and Writers on Twitter 



is changeable.
Can be changed.

We cut down stress
in the back garden of our woes,
in the back garden so neighbours
cannot see our fears spread out
across the lawn.

We stew it out
in solitude so we can shine later
after the dust has found its antidote,
after the touch is again tolerable,
after the new grass grows over
these rotten weeds.

Can be changed.
Light is changeable.

We sit,
this evening,
in the late light of the kitchen
behind the glass partition
and watch the sunset.

Its last light
changing everything it touches

into shadow.


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



I climb trees to forlese the briar and catch the soil
from this bird’s eye view, but my sight is not the same
as sad sparrow so I cannot see if something is stirring
in the rat race below and yet said sparrow can spot
the worm before he enters up into the air
from the earth.

I rub oil, later, over scrapped skin and curse nature
for its thoughtless thorn as I catch a reflection
of Anxious staring out from eyes that cannot see
the thorn of these times. Perception is paramount
to understanding, visible is half the battle, blindness
is not just bound to sight.

I can climb trees and cut thorns but I cannot fly
from this place while erratic dust wiggles like worms
through air I try not to inhale.


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Based in a Twitter Poetry Prompt