In October there were yellow trees. Then the clocks went back the hour and the long November winds came in and blew, and stripped the trees bare. In the town of New Ross, chimneys threw out smoke which fell away and drifted off in hairy, drawn-out strings before dispersing along the quays, and soon the River Barrow, dark as stout, swelled up with rain.
Claire Keegan is an acute observer of landscape. Look how precisely she releases each detail as if there could be no other way of capturing the world at this particular moment. The writing has its own rhythm( we can hear it) and relays a series of brief sensory impressions that we will discover match the thought processes of the protagonist. These thoughts stray into the unusual as if the protagonist senses an impending transformation that goes beyond the seasonal. The landscape feels troubled yet the restraint of the writing only allows the ‘marbled'( Keegan’s word) effects which move us without knowing why.Uncanny writing!
