Forge

The world is what it is; men who are nothing, who allow themselves to become nothing, have no place in it.

Forge in mock HDR

The sun rose for the 20,447th time and as ever, I missed it. I took a lift to Aughrim in Wicklow and went for a ten kilometre walk. The red-doored town forge enhanced the granite grey, under a grey-skied drizzle in the thin fog of cloud that keeps the Ow and Derry rivers watered. The tree- felled river banks, the logs haphazardly scattered among the water logged wheel furrows, resembled a  narrow margin of abused countryside. The smell of burning wood lingered in the windless valley, the chimney smoke thickening the grey air.

It was cold and I walked up through a Coilte plantation, into the cloud at 150 m and the world disappeared.