Brian Douglas https://writing.briandouglas.ie Brian Douglas is a farmer, a father, and a doting husdand who lives up a hill in Donegal <![CDATA[The knowing child]]> https://writing.briandouglas.ie/knowing-child https://writing.briandouglas.ie/knowing-child 2026-01-10T00:00:00.000Z Through the suffering of it's mother, a child is born. Endowed with all the knowledge of the land. It hears the whispers of the wind as it reveals to it the secrets of Heaven. It is born at one with all creatures great and small. It is born knowing. But one day not long after it's birth. It will open it's eyes and see the world as man sees it. Henceforth, all the knowledge of the land and the secrets of Heaven will be lost to it. The child will then be filled with wonder. A gift given to God's children. Set apart from the wild and cast out from heaven. It's life will be lived in the pursuit of that which it has lost.

That which can only be obtained through it's own suffering. As it's mother suffered to bring it into the world.

]]> <![CDATA[A good grip on Ireland]]> https://writing.briandouglas.ie/a-good-grip-on-ireland https://writing.briandouglas.ie/a-good-grip-on-ireland 2026-01-02T00:00:00.000Z I sit by the edge of the still mountain lake. Resting my bones on the green and yellow moss that partly covers the granite slab. I slide off my boots and peel the socks from my pale luminescent feet. It’s rare that they enjoy the light of day. The December sun hangs low in the sky without a cloud to interrupt it. The hills behind me glow pink and orange. Blessed with sunshine for the first time in weeks. The absent clouds bring a light frost. Not enough to make the grass crunch under foot. Just enough to bring a hint of grey and white to the tips that the sheep have left behind.

I bring myself closer to the dark peaty water of the lake. Shuffling my backside to the edge of the granite slab. I carefully place each foot in the water. First my right, then left. Close to freezing, the cold thumps at the balls of my feet. Numbing them as I let the warm air escape my lungs. I let them sink lower into the peaty water, obtaining a golden glow. The once brown and uninviting lake welcoming me with an unexpected gift. A burst of gold. Pristine, ancient, and cold. The soul of the lake beckons me. It would carry me to another world. Where all are young and without trouble. Where all are beautiful and unblemished. Where I would live forever and know no suffering. This is the promise it makes me. A promise I know it will not keep.

I raise my feet out from the lake’s golden water. As a shiver trickles down my spine. An awareness of time. Of the ancient land in which I dwell, and it’s mischief of which many stories are told. The cold clean numbness now replaced by a tingling heat. I wipe my feet dry with the back of my socks before slipping them on. I rise to pull my boot laces tight. Standing now on the granite by the lake. Refreshed. New feet with a better grip on Ireland.

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