The writers - each on their own island, Marooned socially in a sea of others, Writing from private lands, Closed-off habitats, In darkened rooms, Ink-stained hands, Cup after cup of coffee, (And - later into the soul-seeking night - shot after shot of vodka) Watching the sea from afar And dreaming of it And dwelling upon its backward waves. Dreaming of the gold-rimmed ambitions Of spirit after spirit after spirit, And also wondering if the other writers - Those far-off islands each so solitary - Experience the same waves, Or, for that matter, The same sleepless nights,

The Sin Eater Together we sat on the confessional bench listening to the clicking of heels on mosaic tiles, awaiting the queue to die. A lady who lived in god’s house, watched us girls with her salmon eye, every move we made. Whispered penances festooned the lofty chapel, orderly shuffling from oldies denoted, our turn now, our sins would be eaten. The gridded partition creaked like old knuckles. I almost forgot ‘bless me father’ as my knees located a softer spot on the floor. Beads sang in A distracting manner.

DEAR SIR Dear Sir, Please excuse my sons absence He slept in We slept in The night before he studied into the small hours the mechanics of Skateboarding counting new bruises and fading others how he can ‘ollie’ sets of steps without broken marrow, it releases his anger. How the words of Curt Cobain relates to his 180 degree kick flip and the thrill of a half pipe. That being 16 messes with his head no one understands. And how is it fair, his girlfriend lives ten mile away and he’s no car, why work at the weekend tires him and grunge pulls him through.

The Sperrins Take A dander over Peat clad slopes find the ancient past alive on the fringes of the Sperrins. Pigeon top, a silent view. Absorb, sponge like, the secrets of the Mass rock were hooded priests pray in whispers. Beagmore stone circles retell hardships of bronze age man, Strong, creative, protective of family clan. The Olgham stone of Greencastle, notches ingrained, communicators of the barren landscape. Take A dander over the Sperrins, sense the myths hidden in bedrock, hear the echos of the past re-claimed.

Casenotes (from subject's recreational record) Today I am on a tiger hunt, tight-swollen with revenge. At least, the idea of it. The sketch overdrawn in song, inked in by gang war movies. A claw is lodged deep in me from the last charge and I think I love it, prodding the wound. A barrel of curare drips into my eye. Someone holds a cup above my face, catches drops, shields, only failing when the vessel needs emptying – a split second burn. I punch her but she stays, I cut her, jab, spit, but she remains. Today I bombard a friend. Today

There she goes again, Shuffling on her small grey feet, Shabby clothes adorned with stains, Head bowed against the sleet, Damp, still, from last night’s rain, Her load of crinkled carrier bags Crunching in her arms, Her face smooth-skinned Like a time-worn pebble, Head twitching in permanent alarm, Eyes locked on some distant shore, Frozen in time, eager remembrance Of bygone places And a forfeited chance. Now and then she hears The whispered lines of Some ancient joke and She sheds her cloak of fear, Throws her head back, Grey hair tumbling like a dancer’s

F-18 From a distance, Tam watched in silence. Like him, the monster had remained in the same place all night, dormant; poised. His eyes hurt from too many fags, the odd tear, and staring ahead into the night shadows of his past. Aches clung to him where his body moulded into the chair. It had been a long night. An hour earlier dawn had crept by, nudging the darkness to another place; another time. The quiet of night fled bringing a slow thread of familiar sounds to his ear. He knew it wouldn't be long.