This morning I headed for Bull Island beach. This morning I wandered into some mesmeric fog which kidnapped the shoreline. On this morning I was wave whitened, blinded by sand and light. I took refuge among the dunes then defiantly meditated into the wind. I was freed of some hidden thing, unearthed sediment, expelled scree. I stripped to the togs and ran towards the water, into the sea, raving and howling into that living body, emerging fully charged and slightly altered.

My first happening in two weeks was welcomed. Open collared and open hearted.

To the stables in Mullingar, where many iconic gatherings were held in a past tense place.
Impeccable sound emanated from the room of exposed stone walls. I spoke to Frank and he weaved a wondrous sound.
Keiran Mulvihill was my travel companion and his compositions filled the place. Telling stories and spinning yarns in melodic forms, Tom Crean, the makings of the man. Poetic humour in a Kerry brogue.

A face that I hadn’t seen in five years appeared at the bar. A friend from those embryonic days by the Merseysippi. A Beggar to a Beggar cried and all seemed well in the world.

Today was full in every which way.

David X