 These were the days he liked best. The time and place where all the seasons flowed together. From Monicknew he could view across the plain to the Ridge of Capard, the brow of Ballycoolan and the Windy Gap. From here, he could see the ends of the earth. Everywhere in between was spring, summer, autumn and winter. He could never pick his favourite, no matter how often pressed by others and surrounded by excited eyes and ears, for they all had something special and a special place in his heart. The Buddah was homeward bound again. Regardless of how far he travelled, he always came home. He had travelled not for miles or metres, not for days and nights, nor yet for years or decades.... © Johnny Renko |
As Paul entered the laneway leading to the family home he savoured the sweet smell of hay. So different, he thought, from the stench of rotting fruit and vegetables that he had grown used to in Dublin’s Smithfield market. He paused to take in the scene. The thatched cottage nestled among trees from which rooks swooped down to forage in the meadow. Beyond was the sweep of the Slieve Bloom Mountains. He was assailed by so many childhood memories; collecting nuts and blackberries from the hedges that surrounded the farm, bringing the cattle home for milking, catching small fish in the sweet water of the stream that flowed under the skirts of the willows that were anchored perilously to its banks.... ©Frank Parker Available as an eBook: www.smashwords.com/profile/view/FrankLParker |
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| HOMEPAGE |