Come Imbolc / we’ve left the gate on the latch / waiting

Come Imbolc / turn us over and all else / out
We’ve left out straw to ignite ashes into action
Into obliteration / cleanse this dust / this despair

Come Imbolc / empty us / our bellies lie open
Eager to be burped / belched / unburdened
We have eaten our own fears and grown fat

Come Imbolc / there’s an empty bed / for later / after
And the gate is off the latch / has long been off
while we waited and the door has long creaked of welcome

Winter stayed too long / we grew weak / under its weight
Under all this waiting / swallowed all we did not want to see

Come Imbolc, carve the fear from the tissue we’ve choked on
That festered in these bellies / come bring it out / unbirth it

Tomorrow we will light a candle / burn the memory
and the ash / the ash will turn to notes as we sing of your return.

Imbolc is the festival celebrating the beginning of Spring and I wrote this poem based on a Poetry Prompt from Catherine Ann Cullen, poet in Residence at Poetry Ireland via Twitter on St. Brigid’s Day which was the 1st February 2021

I read this poem on last weekend’s episode of Eat the Storms, the Poetry Podcast…



Winter has grey wings,
feathers of sodden soot
that come from concrete clouds
too dense to discern any light beyond.
Winter spawns grey wings
but spring is an architect of possibility
by a canal of colour that sweeps in
after the fright of the frost
and baths us in a blithe breath
that blows across a chest once in chains.

Round the red bricked bridge we ride,
each pedal pushing past the storms
that rained rivers through our winters.
Follow the river, she sings,
seasons are short but the earth is a sphere
turning towards the light,
dark doors open often into hopeful,
the river recalls its route
regardless of the water,
blue can be a bright beacon to bathe in,
black is only shadow
before it finds a reason to ignite in light,
bark is dry but the branch bares blossom.

We can be the water or the bridge,
the natural path or the paved plot,
the route is bright beyond the chains,
the greyest night is but a sleep behind
the colours waiting beyond the bend.


All words and water colours by Damien B. Donnelly

22nd poem for National Poetry Writing Month


Come the cycle

wild through this dawn

of the daffodil,

I will be a vine in blossom,

a blanketed spring upon the prairie,

a seed of song to follow the frost

and you; the sun

in a season

too sweet for shade.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly with the aid of the magnetic poetry oracle


Winter’s withering winds

rustle through berry’s blossom

in the gentle dawn, falling

on these days of the daffodil.

I walk by wild water

in a world wild of will.

Bloom beneath spring

summer; a blanket beautiful,

seasons are cycles,

sweet that song from seed to stone.

All words by Damien B. Donnelly influenced by the lunchtime magnetic poetry oracle



Trees tremble

in winter’s clutch,

hardening soil

hardens hearts,

frost will follow

till spring’s breath

beckons icicles

to gently weep.


All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Inspired by a twitter poetry prompt from #WrittenRiver

Spring Cleaning


Spring cleaning

As fresh white snow falls by the window.

Spring cleaning;

Filling countless boxes of memories

To be covered up in cupboards,

Hoovering up all you left behind

In corners too tricky to tackle.

Spring cleaning,

Polishing over reflections in mirrors

Of the many moments we made

And washing the bedclothes over and over

And entrusting the rest for time to fade.

Spring cleaning,

In December, with icicle eyes

As snows of white cover the world and its sighs.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly