1. Coming up through Connemara … the weather turning lyrical; gusts of rain and slants of sun. Too secular for miracles, we note the Twelve Pins clipped by mist, brief rainbows over windy lakes, cloudy traces over stone. Each windscreen wipe’s a second take. 2. Padraic Pearse’s summer cottage … its lyrical ambivalence … Thirty-six he was when shot; a man who found his eloquence required at last a coarser edge. His “red wine of the battlefields” still had some poetry about it— even as the blood congealed. 3. What is it with the west of Ireland? The estuary, the…
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