As my own children grew I found I had more time to devote to the craft of writing and learning about poets both old and new, the studies of ancient Ireland and the histories of Ireland up to the present day. I also began studying spiritualism and the Mystics, a work in progress along this path, trained as a Crystal Healer and tarot reader.
I joined the Busheaneys writers group in Omagh and from there joined and help found, The Derry Playhouse writers and this opened many avenues and introductions to Master classes in writing and writers. I also wrote short stories and was short listed for the Brian Moore short story contest 2003.(published as Ann Colton) Got awarded the full scholarship for The John Hewitt Festival and The Tyrone Guthrie Bursary. My best moments was meeting Seamus Heaney and John Montague who have inspired me to to put pen to paper.
The Busheaney's writers group produced a book of writing by the group titled,
'Voices among the hedgerows' and Seamus Heaney kindly wrote a foreward which said,
Poetry is the true and universal bush telegraph, and it's no surprise to find it alive and well in Tyrone-amount the busiest of the all.
On the back burner where my writing is concerned, I am writing spiritual memoir about growing up in Omagh, my early days at the convent school and punk roots.. should be fun.
I'm also keen photographer like my father was. I have been writing poetry from an early age, which began by reading mothers old Irish ballad books that she collected over the years.
I finds inspiration in the blanket bogs and various landscapes in and around the Sperrin Mountains.
Haiku, one of my favourite forms which I love to write, I also enjoy studying the Masters.
rose petals floating -
small puddles reflect summer
in sun drenched pools
The wind tonight is merciless,
tearing up the yard and throwing its
damaged ego against the doors.
Branches whip against the window pane,
bin lids flap with dangerous jaws
grabbing all that lands its way.
Afraid to venture out for a sniff about
the dog curls her back to it like a cat.
We hear the leaves circulate at the door.
Coal in the fire argues with the wind; hissing
and spiting stubbornly; casting shadows on the wall
like warriors or better still, angels.
The wind tonight is merciless.