Travel had been costly, the funeral a blur.

He couldn’t recall why they’d become estranged.

A tug on the lead prompted him to release the Yorkie to belt along the lane and off into the snow-trimmed shrubs.

Movement snatched his eyes to the starkly camouflaged magpie.

Its croak seemed commiserative.

Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.