TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
Time flies. Only a few weeks ago I would glance at the swan's nest by the river on my cycle home, checking to see if the swan was still there, spooled white in its bed of reed-grass. The bird's waiting, its labour in stillness for the future, seemed to mirror my own daily solitary endeavours at my desk. Now, the nest is empty, after disaster or newly hatched life, and I have a chapter done and another one nearly finished. All of Galway is blooming and I can finally enjoy it. Good spring so far.