Dusk In the west of Ireland, sitting in half-light we slowly drift into night. The sun glides gently over the horizon, air shimmers as if faeries have their candles on glow. I love this time of winding down rough edges of rocky hills softened into shadow dancers against an indigo sky. A hush falls on birds, bees and beasts. The cares of the day evaporate. My time, a refuge in teenage years walking in evening light, escaping harsh eyes and censure. Wrapped up, safe from exposure. On the water, waves reflect warm pockets of waning light. I set aside my day face. The ocean stretches to infinity, asks for our stories reminding us to breathe, to rest, to be.
Rona Fitzgerald
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