Greasy Grey Donegal Poem by Adrian Murphy

Summer has run its last and autumn has gleefully seized the baton.
Winter paces impatiently, with an icy hand outstretched,
And yet, nothing can steal my happiness

Not the greasy grey Donegal sky,
Not the spray from crashing Atlantic waves,
Nor the biting northerly launching kite surfers doll-like in the air.

In the warmth of Nancy’s parlour, a whiff of turf fills the air.
As the Guinness settles, time slips slowly by and I pause
Captivated in the boundless warmth of your love.

30 October 2009