Written by Emma Smith, 14
1st Place in our Summer Writing Contest over on our Outreach Page
Answering the prompt, “A Perfect Summer Day”
The morning came like a drawn breath, as if the world itself had waited just long enough to learn to be quiet.
Sunlight piled in glimmering pools across the fields, trapping each blade of grass like a strand of light spun and firm.
An lá foirfe, the words unwound in my head, smooth and resolute.
I stepped, the earth pressing cool against my soles, the dew a gentle riser from earth that had held too many secrets.
There was a potent smell of wild thyme and clover, the scent entwining with the buzz of bees, industrious and insistent.
A blackbird trilled in the hedge, its tune a fractal of home and loss.
Far beyond the low ridges, na gualainn ciúin the sky lay before it, a bowl of deepest blue, as though the world had leached itself to make space for light.
I remembered her — not as a wound raw and bleeding, but as a slow fire, smouldering upon the surface of things.
It was to have carried a secret sun about her, warm and concealed.
Is fearr bheith buailte le grá ná bheith slán gan é.
Her laughter continued to spin like summer wind through the leaves, a dance I’d danced once, not knowing it would be the final one.
The grass bent beneath my palm, green fingers unfolding like a blessing, inviting me toward the earth’s own rhythm — steady, ancient, patient.
Tá an talamh ina mháthair anseo, the earth is a mother here. Not devouring, but embracing.
Her body had folded back into this serene cradle, and the thought no longer split me in two.
By the river, the water ran like a hymn, silver light shattering on its face — a thousand small fires burning and being quenched in endless repetition.
The wind riffled the curls of my hair and carried with it the barest echo of her voice, a breath caught between two heartbeats.
All around, the world thrummed with soft contentment — deep but insistent.
Neighbours called out to one another over hedgerows; children’s laughter echoed behind the insistent hum of bees.
Eventually, in the pub, the stout was poured dark and chilled, foam wrinkling like soft clouds melting in sun.
Grass and sun-heated stone filled the air, weight of olden days coming down like morning dew.
I watched the swallows stitch the sky with their dark curves, embroidering the blue with faint, effortless stitches — a tapestry of movement and remembrance.
Tagann faoiseamh leis an samhradh. Not forgetting, but unstringing.
The banding in my chest eased, and the shadow cast by sorrow softened to a quietening dusk.
Grief was no longer something that needed to be endured but an ever-present friend, enfolded in the green wave of the ground and the limitless depth of the sky.
I breathed in the day, the odour, the light, the sound, and let myself be healed.
In this perfect summer day, I found a place where love and sorrow could live.
Where the earth kept her safe, and I learned to carry her motionless, not in anger or desperation, but in wild and trembling thankfulness.
Translations
- An lá foirfe — The perfect day
- Na gualainn ciúin — The quiet shoulders (likely referring to hills)
- Is fearr bheith buailte le grá ná bheith slán gan é — Better to be struck by love than to be safe without it
- Tá an talamh ina mháthair anseo — The earth is a mother here
- Tagann faoiseamh leis an samhradh — Relief comes with the summer
Spyder 