An Island Lunch

Many years ago a friend and I walked the mountains and islands around parts of Ireland. Also we climbed cliffs and mountain crags, kayaked rivers and explored the shoreline. Then one day he was gone for this earthly place. The following is dedicated to him.

An island lunch.

View from the cafe Dingle (2).jpg

To Share your Lunch, with one’s best friend.
From nature’s table the view is free.
While wave’s lap at the table’s edge,
And seal’s they watch, from their place of rest.
The sun warm’s my seat of rock,
no man made sound to Be heard.
But now you have gone, from nature’s land.
So my friend, let’s enjoy this bread I share.
Where your spirit and this island meet.





A breath, a cry and new life begins.
A daughter, granddaughter or niece.
The up’s and down of living life,
I never would replace.
The joy and strife in raising you,
The smiles and tears we share.
Now a woman, with your own life.
Your own love now to share.

Eye of Seoirse



What people can’t see. Happier new Year.

When I sit down at the computer to write something down, the one thing you can’t see is the trouble some people have when it comes spelling and communicating with the written word. To put this into perspective I have had to look up the spelling of five words so far. I am not doing this looking for kind words and sympathy, I learned to live with this for 50+ years. When I went to school if you had trouble spelling or reading you were classed has stupid or thick. This has nothing to do with intelligence, but due to embarrassment and years of being made to feel stupid it did hold me back. I was very quick when it came to working with numbers doing maths in my head and teachers asking to see the written solution, because they thought I cheated. Today young people get more help with problems, but I am sure a lot still hold back because of the stigma and teasing attached to not being able to spell or read to a level laid down by others.

A time came in life I decided to accept my way has me, life got easier. what others thought mattered not. It’s what I thought of me was the main thing, I have other great gifts to give through art, photography and my attempt at writing what I call verse. I don’t know the proper term for it. Poems, prose whatever.  When people start to accept people for being what they are and not putting labels on them. Putting them in pigeon holes higher or usually lower that where they see themselves. What I ask is in the coming new year ahead, look at the next person has a human being. A brother, sister regardless off looks or place. Dress or religion. Remember whatever label you put on any person, there is a fellow human. Accept them as they are and perhaps this earth where we live will be a nicer place.

Have a happier New Year


This Christmas thing.


365src11.12.2015yHere we are again on the Christmas spending merry-go-round. Just about got ready for Santa to arrive and the ads on television and radio are wanting you out spending before the turkey has had time to get digested. Plus the summer holidays are also being done, work hard and borrow to keep Mr Money in the fashion he wants. Yes dressed in your hard earned cash. On the subject of cash when was the last time you seen any, we are being trained like preforming puppies. To be weened off the stuff, keep it all by card or electronic transfer’s. You know it’s safer. That way they know where you are and what you spend your money on. When cash disappears you will told what you can and cannot buy. Bills will be payed straight out from your account and what ever is left after all deductions is your take home pay. Well Merry Christmas and Happy Spending.




Mind twisting torment, heart breaking moments.
Tears of joy, Tears of sorrow
Fear, nerves, laughter, singing
No sleep, forever thinking
Love , hate, fighting, cuddles
Touching lips, holding hands
Is this right, is this wrong.
Feeling guilt, feeling strong
Bodies held all night long.
Time together , time apart
Healing riffs, widening apart
Ah. decisions of the mind or heart.
Eye of Seoirse

Cyberspace bikers

Cyberspace bikers
Were would we be without that little box , yea the one with the keyboard thing.
We chat to folks faraway, sort road runs and campin’ things.
We can book tickets for ferries and shows, or order goods that come to the door.
Buy spares and new tyres, leathers and gloves. Even check out the local wh…. But we’ll not go there.
Show photos we took, review the odd book and have friends that we’ve never met.
Read what they have done five minutes ago, and five minutes ago before that.
We load up a map and plan up the route, download to a sat nav thing.
Its bolts to our bike, looks as nice has you like, but damn if I can follow the thing.
So I’ll stick to me map, my note book and pen. My voice if I even feel lost.
I’ll fire up the bike, ride has quick has I like. slowly I’ll have by choice.
I’ll leave it to those, with all the gadgets or toys. To travel at cyberspace speeds.
And I’ll camp in the wild, away from the noise. And a good book for my entertainment needs.
Eye of Seoirse



The night grew cold and frost was setting in. But the clear skies were lit by star’s that were only outnumbered by the ones on the road in the headlamp light. The grass and heather on the Moor land road had put its fluffy white coat on. Fingers froze to the shape of the bars on the chop, its last run before a winter rebuild. Eye’s red rimed and the sound of a big single beating a slow rhythm echoing of the granite walls, the road over the moor was mine. Having covered about ten miles at twenty-five mph, I knew that by an old stone cottage, a mile up the road stands a small outcrop of trees. Pulling the chop over and parking up, I slowly part my hands from the bars, promising my self a new pair of winter gloves, again. Hands on top of the engine, till the feeling returns with a blinding pain in my fingers as blood thaws. Looking over at the cottage while I lit a cigarette, a movement by a window catch’s my eye. The cottage is used by a family in the summer months, who also own the largest dog I have every seen. Feeling it’s been a trick of light, I settle back to enjoy my smoke. With the silence of the night all around, all I hear is a fox or badger moving in the undergrowth somewhere behind me. The noise fades and the still night returns with just the odd tingle from a cooling exhaust. Again movement at the window. I start to move up the short lane and stop at the garden gate, its flaking paint rough to the touch under its frosty coating. Looking at the place it seems dark and empty, but something still stands with in. Opening the gate I start to walk up the gravel path, boots sounding like a stone crusher. Reaching the door I gently rap, like I might wake someone. I’m startled by the sound of an old worn lock being opened. The door opens and a woman in her mid twenty’s smiles out from the darkness. “Sorry I though the place was empty” I said, adding I’d seen a family here in the summer months. “Come in out of that cold, I’m Rose” a hand reached out. “Sammy-g” I replied, entering through the low doorway. The only light in the room came from the dying remains of a turf fire, has if reading my mine Rose places a couple pieces on the fire and then lights a small oil lamp in the centre of the bare wooden table. “Come warm yourself,” pointing at the fire. I moved closer not needing to be asked again. Rose swung a black kettle over the fire on a crook and I noted the fine lines at her eyes and mouth corners. She had kind eyes and a wide mouth slightly to large for her face, but pleasant looking. I sat on a wooden stool by the fire soaking in its gentle heat, opening my jacket and removing my neck warmer. Rose said she had heard the bike approach from the distant, and watched me pull over and light up. That she lived here years ago, and rented it out. But had moved back after the Johnson’s had their last summer holiday. I told her I lived on the other side of the moor at Will Todd’s old place. “Tea” she asked and I nodded back. Handing me a large mug full and steaming, she sat down on the edge of the hearth. Back facing the fire and the light from the lamp painting her face in a pale yellow glow. “It’s a cold night to be out on a bike,” she said. I told her about visiting friends down in the village and dropping Christmas presents in for their kids. I asked if I could smoke, she said, “Ye just sit close to the fire place”. I lit up a cig and asked when she last lived here. I lived here till I was twenty years old and then my mother moved to Scotland. My father rode motorcycles, a ‘Indian’ I think it was. This was my father’s cottage but after my mother died he could not stay here, he had a brother in Scotland so that’s were we went. Later after I came back to Ireland and travelled around. “What do you do for a living “; she asks. “I landscape gardens and do dry stone walling and any other little jobs that need doing”. Looking at my watch I see it’s going on 10.20pm and down the rest of my tea. She goes over to a large chest sitting in the corner and brings back a dark skin book. Opening it she shows me a photograph of her dad sitting on a Red And silver Indian motorcycle. I can see were she gets her looks from; her father has the same mouth features. I put another turf log on the fire and watch the small red sparks dance on the rising heat, then slowly disappear up the chimney. Rose talked on about her father and how she missed him through her life. Another hour passed an I said its time I made for home. “Have another hot cuppa before you go” she reach’s for the teapot. Lighting up a cig Rose hands me the hot tea, it’s going to be hard to leave a hot fire and face the cold biting air. We talked a bit more and I got up to leave. Rose went back over to the trunk an handed me a pair of large black motorcycle gantlets, the type you might have seen about thirty years ago. “They are my fathers”; she says. “I cannot take them”; I reply. But you never win from a strong-headed woman. Leaving the door I promised to return the gloves soon. Reaching my bike I looked back and could just see movement at the window. Pulled on my crash hat and fired up the big single. The sound shattering the still night air. Lifting a black leather clad hand to wave I could see the cottage was in darkness, sitting against a backdrop of twinkling stars. Slowly I made my way home across the slippery moor road. After what seemed like forever my cottage came into sight, has I parked the chop in the back shed I noticed my hands were the warmest part of me. Inside I stoked the fire and set the motorcycle gauntlets near the door, so to remember to return them to Rose. The weather turned bad over the next week, the roads were near impossible to drive on. Even my beat up old Landrover was getting it rough. With nothing to do I went to work on the old chop. A strip down and service on the engine, a fresh coat of paint on the frame. A larger tank and seat were fitted; some wiring I’ve been putting off was sorted. The old girl was put back together. Just over three weeks had passed since that night I’d meet Rose, every hour since she had been in my mine. Each time I’d see the gloves I think of the time I’ll see her again. With the weather getting better, I fire up the old bike and pulling on the gloves I set off. The air is clear and a fresh wind blows in over the hills. The smell of spring is starting to set in. Its good to be back on the road. Has I reach the small out crop of trees at the end of the lane, I pull the chop over and look up at the cottage. A 4 x 4 is sitting parked at the small gate, which has green flaking paint. Leading up to the cottage door my boots crunch on the gravel path. The cottage looks different in the sunshine. I reach the front door and gently knock, the door slowly opens and a grey headed man answers. “How may I help?” he inquires. I ask for Rose, his face turns ash white. He looks at me and invites me in. The interior has changed from the night I was there. Its has a homely feel and yellow pine furniture. He asks me to sit down; I pick a seat close to were I sat that night. I tell him about meeting Rose and having tea, I give him the gloves and he looks over at the chest by the wall. He starts to speak “Rose was my daughter who died at the age of twenty; I use to ride a Indian motorcycle. One day Rose was on the back coming up from the village, it was winter and we crashed down the road from here. She was killed out right”. The hair was now standing on the back of my neck has he handed me the gloves back. These were the last things Rose gave me please keep them. I looked at the gloves and stood to leave. “ I always knew Rose was still here”; I said my goodbyes and walked to the bike in shock. Looking up at the cottage I started the bike and waved stamped into first gear and headed home. Rounding the bend at a place known has The Hollow a woman crosses the road and I serve to avoid her. The tree and me became one. “Hello Sammy-g” Rose called. “Come walk with me”.

Eye of Seoirse