The Rams Horn

I have turned to the landscape because men disappoint me: the trunk of a tree is proud; when the woodmen fell it, it still has a contained ionic solemnity: it is a rounded event without … Read More


For a countryman the living landscape is a map of kinship at one level, at another, just below this, a chart of use, never at any level a fine view: sky is a handbook or … Read More


Moved to the blessing of colour because of the marvellous whin and over the clay-fleshed plowland the young corn brairded green, I name each colour for blessing, for blessing’s the grace of delight; the bud … Read More

An Irishman in Coventry

A full year since, I took this eager city, the tolerance that laced its blatant roar, its famous steeples and its web of girders, as image of the state hope argued for, and scarcely flung … Read More

The Green Shoot

In my harsh city, when a Catholic priest, known by his collar, padded down our street, I’d trot beside him, pull my schoolcap off and fling it on the ground and stamp on it. I’d … Read More

Because I Paced My Thought

Because I paced my thought by the natural world, the earth organic, renewed with the palpable seasons, rather than the city falling ruinous, slowly by weather and use, swiftly by bomb and argument, I found … Read More


The church is small and well designed, its woodwork clean, its altar neat; the only things to vex the mind those gaudy Stations of the Cross. Three altar boys with nimble feet flit round the … Read More


We Irish pride ourselves as patriots and tell the beadroll of the valiant ones since Clontarf’s sunset saw the Norsemen broken… Aye, and before that too we had our heroes: but they were mighty fighters … Read More