Polly Richardson (Munnelly) Polly is a Dublin born poet now living and writing on the Dingle Peninsula, Kerry, Ireland. She has been published both nationally and internationally in many anthologies and e-zines under the surname of Munnelly and more recently Richardson. A contributing poet to US-based poetry forum Mad Swirl and Europe’s Live Encounters digi mag with poems featuring in Boston’s Nixes Mate review, Porter Gulch Review Cabrillo college US, Italian based Lotus Eater mag and member of and co-runs Navan creative writers group: The Bulls Arse. She has been heard reading at national and international poetry festivals from 2013 to 2019 including Trim’s (Meath Ireland) first poetry festival in 2019. She also has been heard at open mic nights all over Ireland and via Skype for the second time to Dallas when Mad Swirl went live launching their best of anthology 2018 in 2019. In 2017 she worked with Frisian poet and the now Netherlands Laureate Teasd Brunja in Harrlem in Amsterdam. Her debut collection Winters Breath was launched with Impspired early September 2020 and is available on Amazon . She’s currently working on her second collection.

Dingle Wilds 35 Reflections – John Street     pale moon New year

Sun licks my face. I sit with first sun flickers while January yawns herself here, awake, 
blinking in dawns arrival depside surging seas, swells enough to wow peculiar pessimist’s 
Hold each lapse between own blinks wide open in case a wave should roll beneath lids, be missed,
losing itself ever more to a story of and wonder
- Where do all missed waves go? The ones in ebb and flow 
when eyes like breath take their moment to retrieve.

 I sit with watery sun now streaking skies 
painting itself here despite dull swirls thickened voice bellowing above with this storms approval 
morning’s long since danced, held hands with noon. Sun licks my face; I sit with January’s whispers.
And Trees shake showing determination creaking groans rooting deeply down despite
unwilfully bending back against sharp heave form

 brewing gusts blowing fiercely announcing themselves anew once again.  A reminder this is
living. Alive. How clever. How very clever. Westerly wilds have its own song.
Through those heated licks, melting into every pore against this pane showing all
I bend in avenues of my mind as trees to wind, yet willing, 

Roots moving in splendour reflections playing peek- a- boo . I see you. 
Keepsakes held in those places behind the turns
Where the grey mare grazes wisdom laying down on grasses sowed
Beside the waters ebbs and flows, each limb tucked in, while westerly puffs ruffles slumbering mane falling gracefully to every missed wave heard. I sit with first sun flickers, the hound deep in REM runs
Kneading my sides to soft, I cross over right leg to left smile up at tomorrow’s moon.

Dingle Wilds 36 – Begin. Gallarus.

Upon hearing the death of Ashling Murphy

First sips of coffee greet as sunrises colour clouds heats bareness stretched 
out below. The beginning. Rebeginning of beginnings. The possibilities. 
That marvellous moment of unknown. Opening secrets that danced before 
muted maybe, whispering slight. 
Horizons call louder 
gifting spectacular as waves turn themselves over, their
transparent horses rare, show form, brilliant aqua turquoise,
 so brilliant it blinds barnacle’s looking into darkness. Growing none the less. 

I pluck pebbles rainbowing sands, wonder it’s song, how many eyes glanced passed
over this one, reflect upon journeys that landed us both at westerly shores, 
embrace solitude, walking with sun- shadow. Me, myself and I, fear will not dare
intrude this 4pm grace alone with wind, sea, and bird. He will not snub out this flight.
How dare he slither, steal light handed down from stars
 king of coward quiver from your own blacked marrow. I dare you.
I pluck pebbles rainbowing sands, wonder it’s song. Her breath will blow
 greet as sunrises colour clouds hand in hand with Anu, Lugh, Ériu.
As humanity mourns her each foot fall after on lone wilding trails will 
strike sods fiercely strong gifting spectacular as waves turn themselves over
The beginning. Rebeginning of beginnings. The possibilities. 

 Note :Aishling Murphy a young Irish woman at the start of her young adult life was murdered while out for a jog on a popular walkway in Ireland at 4pm by a random male . Shocked the nation.

We grieved.