She slips into cerulean blue, supple form all but naked. She has eschewed the nose clip today. She wants to show off.

The little basket clings to her hip as she stoops into the depths, streams of bubbles flowing from her sleek black hair, transformed to jewels by camera light.

Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration.