I composed this in my head whilst laid wide-eyed and sleepless at about four this morning.

Comments from native Irish speakers concerning my attempts at Irish are most welcome.

I’m attempting to stick to the Munster usage to avoid confusing myself more than I already am!

I’m itching to compose a sonnet,

One’s lurking here, under my bonnet:

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Books make visible the writer's soul

Which bleeds its angst by pen:

Spread thin across life's whited bowl  

A thin red stain of madeleine

Books may offer us an author's eye

That ensnares the reader within its brail

Or should writers light the reader's sky

And tear apart the shadowy veil?

Books will hold the writer's thought

And bridge the gap twixt pen and read...

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