Gaia's Awake

So I can’t enter the Abbey Theatre’s “Dear Ireland Part Two: The Dear Irelanding” letter writing competition because my wife (my wife) works there and I certainly have not written a different one of these and submitted it under a suspiciously bland pseudonym. If had done that, this would be one I believe would have had a better chance but just wasn’t quite as good, or at least not as heartfelt. But I didn’t do that so it’s not a thing. Anyway, here’s my Dear Ireland letter.   Dear Ireland, How are you doing? You're looking well, in all this sun. These streets of yours are cleaner now  with  the lockdown lift. For a while there you'd gotten a little grim, as if you'd gone too many days without a shower, hiding behind pulled curtains, pizza boxes and empty cans strewn about. But we all have our rough patches. I know that I do. And as for me, I spent the morning moving from room to room ,  ushering bluebottles out of windows. I  feel  the futility of this. The big

Now they both float above the surface, describing a wide arc, moving at maybe 40 klicks, though unhurried and strangely still. One head gently leans on its companion's neck as on they charge, they float.  Later Mo will spend twenty minutes joyfully fending off the advances of a Cockerdoodle, whatever the fuck that is, while the owner and I exchange pleasantries from halfway across a football pitch. I keep having to ask her to repeat herself. Because I am old, because I spend much of my working life beneath a speaker blaring, and because of, well you know. She's working from home. Her dog misses the other dogs from doggie day care. Her job is in wet wipes. Used to spend much of my working day beneath the speaker blaring. And will again, one assumes, hopes. Nine Inch Nails, Selina Gomez, Missy. Up too loud. Making the sound level monitor on the wall flash its red eye of disapproval and futility.  But not these days. Now it's headphones in and nothing but Mountain Goats an