I’ve been hibernating.
It’s easy enough to do when the winter sun isn’t up until almost nine o’clock and on the wane again by half past three; some days barely there at all. A season of fires and blankets, good books and endless cups of tea.
Today is, traditionally, the first day of Spring – St. Brigid’s Day, here in Ireland, or the pagan festival, Imbolc, marking the mid-point between the winter solstice and spring equinox. As I return from the corner shop, this morning, and stand on the doorstep, digging out my keys, a tiny flash of green catches my eye.
a dreaming skin 