The West's Awake
by Cormac MacConnellRSS 
Recent Posts
- An open letter to President Obama - some handy local tips for his visit to Ireland
- Some wonderful discoveries - relishing Irish trad session, The Gathering visitors and more
- The swallows return, beard competition, historic crimes and other musings
- A new taste of spring in Ireland- Tayto crisp’s cheese and onion chocolate bar
- Margaret Thatcher, Queen Elizabeth and the two Marys - Now it the time for a woman Prime Minister in Ireland
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The humpty graveyard surrounding Kilbawn Chapel is exactly like thousands of graveyards in rural Ireland.
I swear that I am going to write something lighthearted this week. I'm going to avoid all the national and international tremors and tragedies and politics and plagues.
It will be difficult indeed under the circumstances, but dammit there comes a time to call in the clowns too. And we're there.
I came home from the Honk a little while ago under a curved moon and one of the last pure blued night skies of the expiring year.
The Dutch Nation and the dogs and cats were all abed. The Christmas tree was still lit up in the corner of the front room of the cottage, and the stove was glowing redly. It was warm and cozy.
From the bottom of the little tree, down near the stand, the old familiar face of Mastitis leered out at me from behind a bulb in the shape of a holly berry. Though he looked quite frightening, I still raised my glass to him before beginning to write this piece, the last of the Old Year, the first of the incoming infant.
