February 19, 2026
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The Icicle Lounge: The Night the Hand was Offered
Inspired by the Birth of The Icicle Lounge, a series of short stories is now taking shape. While each piece stands on its own, they are quietly connected by the Lounge itself — a shared setting where different lives unfold. I hope you enjoy this first story. The newcomer had walked past the frosted windows… Continue reading
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The Petals Beneath the Morning Light.
The first person to notice the flowers was Mrs Byrne. as she arrived early to light the candles before the eight o’clock Mass. The sun had only now begun to slip through the high windows, with long golden stripes lying across the tiled floor. There, caught in the light like a secret being revealed, lay… Continue reading
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Fit Lads of Winter & The Birth of The Icicle Lounge
There’s something about winter that sharpens everything. The air is colder. The sky is clearer. The silence feels closer to the skin. And yet—in that cold—warmth becomes unmistakable. “Fit Lads of Winter” began as a playful meditation on contrast. I kept imagining figures striding through snow as if it were nothing. Jackets open. Breath visible.… Continue reading
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Arrival
Arrival is a poem about coming home—not only to a place, but to a moment, a body, a ward, a riverbank, a sky clearing after rain. Set along the familiar paths of Monasterevin and Ballybrittas, the poem moves through train platforms, hospital rooms, shared umbrellas, and sudden shafts of light. What might appear ordinary becomes… Continue reading
Arrival, Ballybrittas, ContemplativeLife, EverydayGrace, Faith, FaithInTheOrdinary, GentleStrength, GraceUponGrace, IrishLandscape, LightBreakingThrough, LivingWithVulnerabiity, Monasterevin, NeurodivergentVoice, NeuroDivine, PilgrimParth, PoetryOfPlace, Prayer, QuietMoments, RiverMoments, SacredAttunement, SacredOrdinary, SacredSpaces, SmallMercies, StainedGlassArt, ThinPlaces -
Waiting
In much of Christian spirituality, waiting is treated as a virtue—Advent waiting, prayerful waiting, hopeful waiting. But that language can sometimes feel abstract, almost decorative. It does not always account for the body. For the nervous system. For the long fluorescent hours in hospital wards. For the way time stretches, distorts, or presses against the… Continue reading
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Morning. Coffee. Birdsong.
There’s something beautifully Irish about the way morning begins. Before traffic. Before emails. Before the news. Just the thin grey light over hedges and fields—and the blackbird breaking the silence. When I wrote this dawn chorus poem, I was thinking about that ancient rhythm: robin on the post, wrens in the ivy, curlew calling over… Continue reading
NeuroDivine 