Twinkle-Burn, Far Ago Star

Delphic, dark, ‘n hid you are…

She; Her

Women. Life. Freedom.

All about the tanglebranch of brokentwig it rushroars, raring for the smoothstone leap – the turning, tumbling stream.

Here where the lake’s submerged this bench.

Glenmacnass leaps to the valley b’low, her sights upon the Irish Sea…

To Portobello.

Choice Joyce-isms.

Backache from moving tables ‘n cèilidhing about for hours amongst the mini-gourds ‘n flow’rs.

Please.

Oops…

To be honest… it was fine.

Relatively cold, this breezesome morning – bracing.

Their wake moves me.

I saw the sunset, seeping low, beyond the estate houses.

We’re citizens alike, subject to rule of cracked ‘n flawed democracy!