"Pishogues. Nothing but bleakness; not even a scrawny dog was left, not even a burnt thistle. Nights were treacle-black, they haunted little children and big men alike. Dogs stayed under the range with their heads down; outdoors was for spectres and hooved creatures with strange powers. Children of the long-legged day would look out petrified at the wild sea."
-- Irish poet Evelyn McClaffrey, describing the country nights here in winter.
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