Near The Sally Gap

I'd been meaning to drive out to the mountains past Glencree for some time now. It's been ages since I've last been there. The light was going (as usual) but I thought, why not? Might be interesting at dusk, on those narrowing, twisting, Lovecraftian tree-tunneled roads beyond Enniskerry.

And it was. The mountain mists were roiling quickly over the soft-headed mountains as I climbed into that wholly other world, so near the city and so thoroughly beyond it: a good place to bury the odd body, or let the old moribund melancholy find its natural home, rooted but also passing surely as the mist, the light and the intermittent motorist.

The road was my guiding motif, along with the tiny stubble of telegraph poles and the main mast on the mountain top.

I pulled in a number of times, very wary of the odd car, though it it got darker, the headlights were easy enough to pick out. The light became more and more lurid, smearing drunken flamingo lipstick all over the gaff, then cooled off for the clipped, newish moon I barely noticed after that riot of colour.