The Burren.

Fields etched with silver and purple shadows, reflecting thoughts back at us, sit tinged in green hues as infinite as the memories they make.
Nature’s ponderous exclamations in weathered Erratics – pitted with time having scored out lines like God’s hand through the fragile earth. Boulders and slabs rest like tombstones without inscription or epitaph, marked with the language of the wind and rain on their surfaces – an alphabet lost but meaning remains.
As ageless as the sky, the lands presents stepping-stones as if across time and in their fractured wake buttercups, purple marsh orchids and dandelion puffs, gather in hushed pockets of council where house-martins dance and swim in currents of marble heated air.
This rock-scape, with a haunting presence softened by carpets of green, but broken by blue, yellow, and brown like freckles on the land, provokes the heart with a beauty of no conscious memory.
There exists a knowing in the shadows of the Dolmens, those megaliths of dreams cloaked in myth. This home within the settled wind, this city of stone, where the rock themselves seem to hold their breath.