The music seeps up from the streets, overflows from the feet of those walking along, then travels to the heart.
Music hand in hand with Ireland.
Starts young. The little girl said, "Yeah" to every song the musician sang.
Was it water or straight up gin?
"Whatever," I thought as I bit into some homemade crisps.
Local honey smooth golden soft.
The wool spun
up and through
close to heart,
never far from the source,
but not hard.
Each building a different color.
Babies with rosy cheeks
And the sea and ocean pounding lullabye.
I have walked on grass so soft my feet sank to my bellybutton.
Do the Irish know the color taupe, black, grey or white?
I wore an orange sweater today, French Husband did not know who I was. I threw on Carrie's blue scarf to add to the rainbow punch.
It reminded me thirty years ago on a beach in Spain, I was the only woman with a top. Peer pressure, I took it off.
Red, so red, fried to a crisp. Thought my nipples would fall off.
Wearing an orange sweater is mild by comparison... Oh age softens the toughest cookie.
The music runs as deep as the green.
The facades above
are all on one side of a block.
That is to say Ireland is colorful.
Homemade Potatoes Crisps.
Heaven is certainly here.
A bag of warm love.
Never ever in France before lunch
But in Ireland, do what you want and let live.
Crisps at 10 am.
I honestly believe someone threw a large green patchwork quilt over the land and called it Ireland.
A little black and white in Ireland.
He is the color of my heart.