Frank Corcoran

It´ll be soon time to fly south ” ar nós na bhfáinleoga” – the swallows sense there´s sun down there, the sun as a fire-ball, the sun as hope in the face of Black Holes or the “Sea ofHistory / Upon which we all turn / Turn and thrash / And disappear… ” Down below stir the lemons, vipers yawn and brush their teeth. Could be good; keep up the speed, whipping a new-born opening idea for higher strings, keep violas in reserve. My
cellos and bass a burnished brown , seen through certain light, almost olive colour. Keep up composing energy, the will to finish, closure, all initial potentials whacked and whipped and explored and exhausted. Could be a great symphony of light, this one, sounding. My Summer Song Of Strings.