the night has murmured to the soul;
Peace cannot rest in the shade for long,
it seeks but a sanctuary for a season,
Eden could not flower forever,
there were other fields waiting
to be found as fertile,
other apples begging to be tasted,
other counties where curiosity
wasn’t a closure to the contract.
Behold this wind, this wild thing,
it’s tendrils tug so on my flesh.
Bright is the breath
as the path waits to be pressed.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly