In the sombre mist of a Leitrim morning

The rain descends on St. Swithin’s day.

A symphony of ghosts

tapping ethereally on the window panes, whispering secrets in liquid tones,

whilst out back a rhapsody beats on the tin-roofed shed,

playing percussive notes on footpaths,

in a chorus of bouncing pirouettes.

I fall dreamily into this symphony of nature’s tears,

each droplet a prism of dreams,

a tender watery waltz beneath a slate-grey pregnant sky,

birthing in tide-like sheets across the hills in Tullybradan,

and in its touch the land finds solace

and peace, and so do I,

a tender reminder of life’s sweet release.