Grace Sampson, born in April of 1999, is a young yet daring writer. Irish, but seeking constantly for what lies outside of the Isle, expresses an interconnectedness of life, nature, and the self within her work.  Having split her time between Limerick, Galway, Dublin, and Liguria in recent months, the essence of space and atmosphere is a center to her writings. She intends to complete her first collection of free verse in December.
While still completing her BA with English and Italian at NUIG, she now resides in rural Limerick.

Reflections I – born in April

it was fear – arriving home in a frenzy.
a mask, but it couldn’t protect me.
A passer-through and his ignorance shone

like the beam at the centre of my cave.
Consisting of my seasonal
depression and eternal anger.

My birthday was approaching, but so was the glass to
envelope our destroyed site.
would the trees continue to shake here?

glassy eyes, hands shaking and cold, from the
sniffy nostrils; inhaling what was accepted,
and exhaling the heaviness in my polmoni.

we all hoped to get out;
but from what? i whispered

thoughts floating

I breathe; there is not much left
of this fill, this green light. A synergy
of gas bubbling, and itself, a guiding

I gasp; what are the things that swim
in around me? Searching for direction
but at this humble age I don’t quite
know my inner being
at all.

Will I find it?

Can something guide me to it?

Memories of Corso flicker.

memories of a girl

an eeriness in the shape
of these hands.
they tremble, they shake, but alas,
they can type.

if i could succeed
in not twisting my head,
in not letting my tea go to waste,
i would be not as
reckless as this –

i strive to write,
to see a reflection of something
that I am.
if i put my head down,
will something come of it?

Will it all be a silly game of
Ill – chance, with nothing to cling

some millennials write to show
their friends.
but i write to both stop the voices,
and feel that I too, have a voice

there is no more competing.
i must see something.

Dún Trí Liag

no one should listen.
the dust shall gather, and the
notes shall spring.

They will tinkle, they will barge,
and they will rain on

be careful, yonder,
for when you enter, they
won’t ask you;
of anything.


The firs are gone, but their legacy,
nay, their sheer whispering
sounds live amongst