A lot of my work is nature themed, exploring and reflecting on ecocentrism. As a child, I spent hours drawing, writing and making things, collecting details even then from simply observing the minutiae of everything around me. This wandering (and wondering) through bluebells, city parks and woods with my father and later, on my own through fields, on beaches and through mountain heather, cemented an appreciation of what lives around, with, under and between us. In essence it’s acknowledging and respecting the interconnectedness of everything. I spent my early childhood in the English midlands and later in Greencastle, Donegal. From the multi-cultured metropolis of Coventry to coastal life on the Inishowen peninsula buffeted by gales and waves, the contrast was akin to being transported to another planet. This immediate freedom opened up a world of shore paths, secret coves, dens, loanings, castle ruins, hills and fields. Witnessing landscape changes throughout the years fostered a deep understanding and huge appreciation of resilience, transience and that (often unseen) symbiosis, while life carried on forever at the mercy of the Atlantic. I was very fortunate to grow up and witness all aspects of life there, whilst cognisant that it was not a rural idyll. The reality was not limited to hostile and brutal weather conditions, which often determined the livelihoods of many farmers and fishermen. There was a dearth of mental health services and supports and I cannot omit the generational trauma, brutality, hypervigilance, chaos and grief resulting from the conflict in N.I, which was only a twenty minute drive away and a five minute trip on a boat. It still exerts significant influence on my work. However slant or subtle, elements of landscape (physical and psychological) and the concepts of home and belonging will always find their way into my work. Reading Nan Shepherd’s The Living Mountain, I thought of Cooke’s Hill (the mountain in my poem) as it’s commonly known in the locality where I grew up. These vignettes arrived fully formed, no doubt heavily influenced by the Nature Writing Course I was doing at the time with Granta. I used time as a driver to hint at the undercurrent and stark realities of climate change and species decline. ‘A Year of Mountain’ notes cyclicity, expectation and how everything and yet nothing stays the same. This poem’s a preservation and an invitation of sorts to pause and reflect on the importance of creating mindful and intricate work to engage and interest readers, whilst simultaneously probing our collective relationship with the environment.By focusing on texture, sound, visuals and movement I want the sense of lingering to ground the reader and deepen attention. The layering of images relays what the mountain holds within those layers and feels rather sacred, much like our deep connections to and with places. Gusts could appear from nowhere like phantoms and I loved how the light could quickly and completely transform the mountain under the intensity and menace of a winterish, gunmetal sky or sunshine bursts accentuating the bell flower carpet of violet, white and pink wildflower heather.

Also known as ling, it had many benefits: brooms and brushes were often fashioned from stems of heather bound together and was used as bedding and for thatching. If left alone to mature, it can live for up to thirty years. The generic term Calluna is derived from the Greek word ‘to brush’.

Durable and strong, it was woven into baskets, woven from memory and ancestry and with brooms made from the wiry heather stems, they swept up mounds of velvety ash left behind from fires. Many bird species, including curlew, hen harrier, snipe, meadow pipit and grouse once sought sanctuary on the mountain and also nested among the gentle seed pod rattle and the delicate bell flowers. Writing it returned me to the field, grass tickling my bare legs as I crouched to listen to a hypnotic grasshopper or a pheasant bursting from a spruce in a clatter of wings, hoping to hear the elusive kerr-krek of a corncrake or the kee of a kestrel hovering in the blue above, looking for breakfast.

‘Distance’ came about after a strange dream where the aforementioned mountain was ablaze.

I’d remembered a poem I’d drafted about a hedgerow and the complete ecosystem within, so I took a few ideas from that. Back in the eighties there were numerous gorse fires and as a child I was transfixed by the huge, fuzzy orange glow illuminating the sky, the russet, ginger and amber flames consuming the hills. Country life meant swathes of it were burnt to clear land for fresh vegetation, these wildfires illuminated early spring skies for years and often quickly got of control due to changes in wind strength and direction. It’s now illegal in Ireland to burn vegetation between March 1st and August 31^st, due to nesting season. As with dreams, I knew the vivid images would fade if I didn’t write them down, so it came out as a prose piece and I felt this suited it, mirroring how a stream of consciousness would appear on a page. The form offers flexibility and fluidity with language and elements of containment.

The gorse mutates into the yellow machines, bringing devastation, destruction and loss of habitat while swallows gather materials for their nest, because I remember how the hills were used as an illegal dumping ground. No items were off limits, from old washing machine drums, bed frames and mattresses to televisions and car engines. The putrid taste of sulphur on the tongue and in the air has lingered in my memory and wanting a dystopian feel, a prose poem seemed a good vehicle for it. It’s basically a personal reflection and historical narrative woven together with a prophetic warning.

Regarding ‘Playback’, I had the title, subject matter and the ending, but I couldn’t find the right direction for the poem for ages. I’d a caul birth with my son Roman, whereby the amniotic sac’s still intact (where the membranes haven’t ruptured) with parts clinging to the baby’s head and face. The term caul translates from the Latin word for helmet. The folklore, superstition and myth relating to this phenomena is fascinating. Whereas a caul birth refers to the sac forming a veil over the baby’s head or face, an en caul birth means the baby is born entirely within the sac.

Various peer reviewed literature and historical accounts estimate that en caul births occur in approximately 1 in 80,000 deliveries. Beyond the physical benefits, there are time honoured beliefs about the spiritual gifts of caul births. Folklore linked the idea to symbolism, whereby the caul resembled a veil suggesting the individual could divine sources of underground water, heal, see between worlds and would never drown. In Irish folklore, caul bearers were believed to communicate with spirits, predict events and even protect crops and livestock, (no pressure son).

Long ago, cauls were sometimes carefully dried and preserved by families. Instead of being discarded, they were often kept as a protective talisman. Sailors, soldiers, or people travelling via the sea commonly used cauls as charms. They’d pay to loan the caul, in the hope that carrying it on their person would protect them from drowning or their boat sinking.  The superstition was that the birth condition transferred its protection—if the caul bearer could not drown, then the preserved caul could pass that protection to whoever carried it.

From four to fourteen, Roman spent every possible waking hour at the beach. He snorkelled, swam, learned to sail, jumped off rocks, inflatables, explored rock pools (tide permitting) collected stones, shells and mermaid’s purses. For his ninth birthday, he asked for an underwater camera, to film short videos. This specific day at the beach provided the setting I needed to finish the poem. All the kids (except for Roman) came running out in a frenzy, reminiscent of that scene in Jaws, when Chief Brody ordered everyone out of the water: except this time it wasn’t due to a man-eating, leg-gobbling Great White, but the jingly jangles and sugar spike offerings of an ice-cream van. It took me a while to locate his luminous green snorkel and fins and when he eventually emerged, he ran up to show me what he’d recorded, delighted with his little bit of film making.

So the Playback was literal and figurative. He loved hearing how he was the only one of his siblings born with a special shawl, as he called it, granting him super powers. So, of course it deserved a poem. I sometimes wish I’d taken the caul when the midwife offered and preserved it.

Then again, maybe not. With his younger brother displaying Del Boy qualities, they may have seen it as the perfect opportunity to try a get rich quick scheme – hiring the caul out to sailors and the like. (Of course I’m joking boys – though not about the Derek Trotter similarities).

I’m considering including these in a pamphlet of landscape poems focusing on unspoilt landscapes (which are becoming a rare phenomena in themselves), or maybe they’ll form part of my second collection. For now, I’m very happy they’ve found a home here in The Lonely Crowd.

Lorraine Carey’s poetry, haiku and art explore ecocentrism, environmental responsibility and resilience. She uses landscape, ornithology, migration and delicate systems as conduits to explore loss, survival, marginalisation and belonging. Her poems are widely anthologised and feature in Magma, The Stinging Fly, Spelt, Allium, Poetry Ireland Review, Bracken, Loch Raven Review,14 Magazine and The Cormorant among others. Her art has appeared in Skylight 47, Olentangy Review and Barren Magazine. Her first collection From Doll House Windows was published in 2017 by Revival Press. An Agility Award recipient in 2023, she was selected for The Freedom to Write Project 2024. As an artist, she works mainly in oil and watercolour, often experimenting with sea glass, stone and slate. Her palette evokes intricate coastal and rural tapestries, where unspoilt areas thrive and adapt naturally.

Photo: ‘On Cooke’s Hill’ by Lorraine Carey.