poetry
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Otto. Lancelot. Allen.
There are nights when sleep needs a little help, when the dark feels louder and the mind slower to settle. So Otto, Lancelot, and tiny Allen take their places—not as toys, but as anchors. Softness becomes structure; familiarity becomes safety. For some of us, comfort is architecture. And sometimes resilience is simply three small guardians… Continue reading
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Writing in the Small Hours
This poem was written in real time, in the small hours of the night—not at a desk prepared for “creative work,” but wrapped in a teal blanket, slightly breathless from the stairs, listening to the cats settle at my feet. There is a particular honesty to writing at 3am. The house is quiet. The nervous… Continue reading
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A Quiet House, A Returning Train
Today I found myself writing two small Common Metre poems—companions to one another. Andrew was in Dublin for a course, and the house felt different in his absence. Not lonely exactly. Just altered. Softer around the edges. The Sunday light lay still. The cats took up their posts. The kettle hummed. Pancakes became a small,… Continue reading
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Across the Barrow Viaduct—Writing Between Water and Iron
This evening I found myself standing between layers of movement. The river flowing dark and slow. The canal holding the last of the light. And high above, the long stone ribs of the Barrow Viaduct carrying a train across the fading sky. Across the Barrow Viaduct grew out of that layered stillness. The engine in… Continue reading
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Half the parish
Waiting on a haircut, tea on the tray, pen in hand—and “Half the Parish” found its way onto the page. ☕✍️ There’s something about the hum of a café and the simple coming and going of people that turns into poetry if you sit long enough. Firecastle, Kildare. Simple time well spent. Half the parish … Continue reading
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Coffee Quiet.
Over lunch with my husband in our local café, I settled into the gentle rhythm of the room—the soft sigh of the coffee machine, the low hum of conversation. Around us, friends chatted and colleagues worked, all our different lives briefly sharing the same warm space. As one half of the gay pair from the… Continue reading
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Divinity in Difference: The Window That Says What We’ve Been Trying to Say
Every now and then, an image comes along that says in colour and light what pages of writing have been circling for years. This stained-glass window feels like that. It gathers the heart of NeuroDivine—the essays, the fiction, the hymns, the poetry—and holds them up to the light with one steady claim: Difference is not… Continue reading
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The Pharmacy of Praise
This morning I wrote a hymn about pill boxes and blister packs—about Sundays spent sorting seven small doorways for the week ahead. It’s personal. Andrew and I both live by the rhythm of medicines, colours divided into morning and evening, lids clicked shut in quiet preparation. Sorting tablets isn’t a small thing in our house;… Continue reading
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God’s Whiskered Rogues
This hymn was born from a passing glimpse on Facebook—a brief mention of otters warming St Kevin as he stood in the icy waters of Glendalough. The image lingered. It was easy to picture the bold little creatures of the river: curious, bright-eyed, unafraid. Not solemn attendants, but playful companions. Not tame, but gloriously themselves.… Continue reading
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By the Triogue’s Edge
Inspired by the lone heron standing by the River Triogue in Port Laoise that I see as I walk up to dialysis. I stand beside the quiet streamWhere Triogue’s waters glide;The mallards chatter in their team,But I keep to the side.The park hums soft with passing feet,With prams and dogs and play;Yet here upon my… Continue reading
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