On the last day of summer we were down at the lake. Although everything changes and nature is under extreme pressure, this patch is still a haven. Butterflies were gathering on the wild water mint and the wind was gently swaying the long grasses, full of purple loosestrife and meadowsweet. I was still keen to blog at that point, but . . .
A poem for summer
There’s a Girl Inside There is a girl inside. She is randy as a wolf. She will not walk away and leave these bones to an old woman. She is a green tree in a forest of kindling. She is a green girl in a used poet. She has waited patient as a nun for the second coming, when she can break . . .
The death of winter
Death or the long sleep, is a subject that I am endlessly interested in. There is such beautiful decay around us in everyday winter fading. Maybe we are divided into those who yearn for Spring and those who are slower to leave Winter? Confinement has shrunk my world for now, and yet I'm closer to the small and the . . .
Mystery
Today some portraits, illuminating the mystery of endings. Leaves, lives, moments. Mysteries, Yes Truly, we live with mysteries too marvellous to be understood. How grass can be nourishing in the mouths of the lambs. How rivers and stone are forever in allegiance with gravity while we ourselves dream of . . .
On the road
Here comes the time of the year for going on the road and visiting friends out west along the Wild Atlantic Way . This time we will amble from Killary Harbour in County Mayo down to to the Dingle Peninsula in County Kerry. From east to west, north to south and back again. We are also getting ready for the annual trip to France . . .
High up in the Shard
I've looked up at it before and my image of the Shard taken from the river was part of the London Open House Exhibition in 2014. It has been love from a distance. I don't like heights. But Himself was really up for it, and as I survived the Freedom Tower earlier in the year, I decided to join in. I shuddered a little when I stepped . . .
Wabi-sabi and the beauty of imperfection
Every year at least once I remember the lines of this poem. Usually it's during Autumn in the dazzling russets of dying leaves. This year it was while walking in Mount Congreve during Magnolia time. Magnolias were flowering on dark branches and there are some ancient specimens there, but it was the dying petals strewn . . .
“You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves”
"You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves" from the Wild Geese by Mary Oliver With thanks to Grace . . .
Her labour
Her labour Salty finger tips cling to aching wrist. Pumping elbows, hang from cliff hanger shoulders. Taut chords strangle the hardened neck. Delivering a weighty head through brain blowing tedium. Leaves tangle and soak her skin. Cool on cheeks, all hot from google alerts. Eyeballs . . .
