The thunder rolled itself across the sky, growling its stormy wrath into the darkness over Eireann. The storms had come, chasing each other on to the island with great gusting gales, seething sheets of rain and a darkening of the sun’s brightness. It seemed Winter was loath to release its hold on the green lands.

I lay in my bed, stricken by illness with no respite from the pains but for what broken sleep I could snatch between fits of coughing. Lack of sleep can do much to the mind and so it was with mine, as that night I heard not the thunder of storm fronts, but that of a great many hooves, galloping their way across the sky. I chuckled to myself, tickled by the idea of night riders tearing up the clouds in their wild gallop. Fanciful images appeared in my mind’s eye as malady meshed with memory.

It was second summer in Ireland. 
Or that’s how I have come to think of it. A time which occurs in September, when as a child I would face the in-enviable chore of returning to school after the long summer holiday break. Those olden days of waking up, going out to play, returning for food, then out again until the evening arrived and my mother would call me in, would come to a saddening end. Late August was a time of trying on the school uniform to see how much the summer had grown me out of it, gathering up all of the copies and pens I could find and then an evening of wrapping the second hand books in wallpaper so they would stay good for my younger sibling or resale. 
I always remember the first few weeks of September as a time of sunshine and long wistful sighs as I gazed out the classroom window. Second Summer. The days haven’t gone dark and cold yet. There are still leaves upon the trees even though their Autumn colours are beginning to show. All across the nation the youth are engaged in education and now parents get time to just chill and relax right?

It had been one of those warm, sweaty, labour intensive days. The Autumn colours had begun to cover the land but, as yet, the leaf fall was minimal. The evenings were still long. Clinging to the warmth from the sun, which was slow to set. The Dagda sat by the river, scraping and scouring his great cauldron. Everything from the fire blackened outside, to the food encrusted inside, felt the rub and scrub of his weary hands. As his body worked, his mind began to catalogue the days gathering. 

Fools the lot of them. He was smarter than all and therefore most worthy.
The bard looked around at the gathered band of warriors where they began to make their camp for the evening. Every person had a purpose, moving to fetch firewood, or water. Clearing rocks or stamping down grass. Laying out bedrolls or coverings. 
Aithirne sneered at them all from his seat. Dull folk engaged in menial tasks. Not exactly worthy material for poetic inspiration. Well maybe it was for some others who did not possess his skill in word craft. Let the lesser bards speak on lesser subjects. Where others had taken to training with the draoi to learn the power of words, he had been born with the gift and from his earliest memories it had always served him well for whatever wants he may have.

“I’m sorry.” 
The couch let out a huff of air as I dropped into it. Traffic had been as busy as one would expect for a sunny afternoon. Everywhere you could look folk were out grabbing what light they could, bathing in the radiance of the day star. Or that’s how I liked  to think of it. I rummaged around in my satchel to grab my glasses case to swap from sun glasses to regular ones. My companion had picked a back corner table in the café. Enough to be out of the way, but with an open view of the area all around. 
“You’re excused.” 
He sat on the other end of the couch a wide deep mug set before him, the froth of the cappuccino smooth and flat except on one edge where the first sip had been taken.
“What?”