A Week of the Irish

Small Breaths

by Eileen Carney Hulme

No matter that my heart sinks,
sighs, with the weight of skeletons-

paths I forgot to follow
have slowly sealed

rooms go unrecognised
for fear of change

and I cry at the uncertainty of rainbows.

All the daydreams I stole,
refusing to give them back

are stored as silver dust
and each day is a small breath.


  1. These words have touched my heart.

    They sing my mood today, Thank you.

  2. Ah the melancholy of the Irish. 'Tis our curse and our blessing.

  3. Silver dust indeed...

    May one ask where the photo is from ? It is truly lovely...

  4. We are so distracted with life and so much in a hurry that we let it all get away from us before we come to the end and finally notice.


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Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)

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