I’ve always loved clouds. No matter how many times you look at them they are always beautiful, always different, changing to meet the demands of the sky. I often wonder if clouds look the same from every country. I voiced this opinion once and was laughed at, but I think they misunderstood my meaning. There are so many different factors in sky watching. For instance, I know the clouds don’t look the same in Los Angeles; the pollution is far too great.
I want to curl up on an Irish moor in a soft silence and listen only to Irish secrets whispered in the wind.
I want the sea to sing me history, telling tall tales of Irish lore while I cool my feet in the sand, all huddled up against the wind.
I want to sit in a dimly lit Irish pub and embark on a road to self-discovery, reading James Joyce while I down a second pint of Guinness.
I want to read ‘Ulysses’ and spend a day in the life of Bloom.
I want to lie down on a grassy hill, half searching for a four leaf clover, half cloud gazing.