Snowdrops, Spring and White Feathers

Dear Diary,





I am tasting Spring.

Snowdrops are abundant and popping up in places I have never seen them before. Under hedges and on the grass (by no stretch of imagination can I call it a lawn). Their whiteness seems brighter and their blossoms fuller. M thinks they thrive in the snow, he could be right. There are still odd patches and ribbons of snow on the tops of the hills and mountains, it's amazing how it hangs about isn't it? The two snowmen outside our neighbour's house have shrunk to about a foot high, they are quite a comical sight.

I find a single whiter than white feather in the field, that is the second in two days. I found one on my bedside chair yesterday. Ang passe as they say, another angel has passed by.

It is a pleasure to be outside in the field or the garden. No errands to run today so I can take it easy. I am a little tired as it was Writing Group last night and afterwards we were in the pub till after midnight. I can't seem to do Late Nights any more - not with Early Mornings anyway.

We have homework for writing group and I have done mine already. Guilt made me do it as I have failed to do any recently. I set the subject too. We each chose a word at random from the dictionary and we have to write a piece using all the words which are:

inconsequential, marmalade, calypso, overpowering, loss, offensive and faith.

This is my effort. Marmalade was a bummer I can tell you so forgive me for that rather weak part. Her hair was nearer black to be honest.

Please read the Michael Hartnett poem in my previous blog to see why I tried to do my own interpretation of one particular Irish woman.

Life of an Irishwoman
(aka Michael Hartnett)

Ignorant, in the sense her faith became an armour-like protection from overpowering loss. And patient, in the sense she kept her temper lidded.
Bereft, in the sense she’d lost her All.
Her head, her heart, her health, her kin and certainly all Hope.
And lulled, as if by belief, her rhythms though were random, her actions inconsequential.

I loved her from the day I was born.

She was a lively jig, an Irish-soft calypso,
No, not for her the funeral’s mournful dirge.
Her hair glinted with the colour of Seville oranges.
She was not so bitter as their marmalade, but sweet.
She was my cradle-song, a tiny infant’s lullaby.
She was an orphan, unloved and disconnected.
She was spoiling for a fight but with all the wild aggression kept in check.
Living on the edge of rile, while all around her was offensive.
She was a poem of two worlds, the past and now.
She was their hunger and their story writ in blood and tears.


Cait O’Connor

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait