Where the Sky Passes.

Ireland taught me that the sky makes no promises.

It can pour the Atlantic over you, drain the colour from the hills, fill your pockets with wind and leave you alone on the road.

But no storm knows how to stay forever.

Clouds travel beyond the sea, rain disappears into the peat, and somewhere between a stone wall and the heather, light always finds an opening.

Some people seem to know the air from birth.

I learned from the cliffs instead: one step, then another, hands marked by the climb, a heart too stubborn to surrender.

I do not need to be unbreakable.

I only want to protect every small piece of life I fought hard enough to call my own.

And when darkness comes again — because it will — I will remember this land:

rain upon my face, wind tangled in my hair, and sunlight, without asking permission, suddenly setting the green alight.