WORDLESS WEDNESDAY TRUNKS TELL TALES

I wonder, as with love and hate,which came first- bark almost buried blindor the sweet lie of this lichen grown over as if you where the breath to its lung,the furrow to its field, the ground to its grass, the remnants of its final stand. All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

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BLACK BEAUTY, THE LIGHT IN LOUGHSHINNY

  Clouds congregate under summer skies, standing towers, still, waiting for Napoleon’s rise. Up close, only echoes of history hit the hollowing rock below- coming in to slip out with more, in search of possession on another shore. There are footprints on the beach- horses hooves whose metal shoes now feel the rust of the […]

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THE HAND OF HUME

  I was in Paris at the time- drawing rabbits on chalkboards in an Irish pub, on a Friday, in a cut-off corner of Chinatown. Joanna had studied in Queens, Mum was over from Dublin and Anna and I had promised each other forever friends though we barely survived the slow pull of a decent […]

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