A Photographers blog


I hope you enjoy the images on this web site, I am a Photographer living in County Kilkenny, Ireland. My posts here on this Blog are intended to share both my Local Landscape and the general landscape of Ireland.


Happy Thanks giving to everyone …….

Have a great Thanks giving!!

Personally I am most grateful this year for all the changes I have had time to notice in the landscape that surrounds our home here in Ireland :) :)

– Carol L. Riser, Autumn

“When the trees their summer splendour
Change to raiment red and gold,
When the summer moon turns mellow,
And the nights are getting cold;
When the squirrels hide their acorns,
And the woodchucks disappear;
Then we know that it is autumn,
Loveliest season of the year.”

Irish Landscape Gallery

Water the giver of life

burnchurch county Kilkenny


Lesser Celandine

Rhododendro full

butterfly in june woodlands

The Rain 1

Irish wild life

Forest flowers 2

Kilkenny Landscape Images 04

Cuckoo flowers 2

Old Houses By Robert Cording

Old houses 1

Old Houses

By Robert Cording

Year after year after year
I have come to love slowly

how old houses hold themselves—

before November’s drizzled rain
or the refreshing light of June—

as if they have all come to agree
that, in time, the days are no longer
a matter of suffering or rejoicing.

Old houses 2.

I have come to love
how they take on the color of rain or sun
as they go on keeping their vigil

without need of a sign, awaiting nothing

more than the birds that sing from the eaves,
the seizing cold that sounds the rafters.

Out of the woods , by Gordon Edwards

Out of the Woods 4

Out of the Woods

Gordon Edwards

Out of the woods
the trail turns,
the field rises
dormant grass
now impetuous,
wet with morning drizzle;
the path narrows,
a bevy of birds
an urgent chorus,
moisture seeps
thru the eyelets
of my shoes

Out of the Woods 3

My socks are damp,
the bottom of my jeans
the bark on my
walking stick
peeling away,
a dry stream bed now
all is naked,
I float
thru morning,
become a lifting fog

Out of the Woods 2

The Early Morning Sun

Monday Morning Sunrise 03

The Early Morning Sun

Colin Kohlsmith
Feb 14, 2010

It’s just so damn beautiful
And indescribable
The feeling that I get
In the early morning sun
Hanging like a golden torch
Shining with such blinding light
The glare reflecting off the lake
On the day that’s just begun
Amid the fluttering leaves the breeze

Friday images for the weekend 3

Feels like life is reaching me
Speaking in a gentle voice
Bringing tears to my eyes
Kissing me upon my face
Soft in love, as if to say
I love you my beloved one
This is your own sunrise

Monday Morning Sunrise 02

Friday Poetry , When You Are Old By William Butler Yeats

Irish Landscape Photography Nigel Borrington

Irish Landscape Photography
Nigel Borrington

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

Irish Landscapes Nigel Borrington 2

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

The Mountain Road – Poem by Enid Derham

Irish Landscapes West cork Mountains Nigel Borrington

Irish Landscapes
West cork Mountains
Nigel Borrington

The Mountain Road

Poem by Enid Derham

Coming down the mountain road
Light of heart and all alone,
I caught from every rill that flowed
A rapture of its own.

Heart and mind sang on together,
Rhymes began to meet and run
In the windy mountain weather
And the winter sun.

Clad in freshest light and sweet
Far and far the city lay
With her suburbs at her feet
Round the laughing bay.

west cork mountain road 2

Like an eagle lifted high
Half the radiant world I scanned,
Till the deep unclouded sky
Circled sea and land.

No more was thought a weary load,
Older comforts stirred within,
Coming down the mountain road
The earth and I were kin.

Ulysses By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Ulysses 1

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

When I am gone all to sea

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Image : Nigel Borrington

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Storm clouds over the lake

The Light Bringer , a Poem by : Jude Kyrie

Irish landscape photography Nigel Borrington

Irish Landscape
Nigel Borrington

The darkness of forever
a mantle that shrouds the earth
timeless stars cascade the bejeweled heavens

The silent stillness of all time
pervades the night sky

The light bringer in his infinite vigil
stands alone a silent sentry
lighting his planets one by one

Two lovers sleep in the blessed stillness
in cushions of clouds below the moon,
His starlight falls upon them
like a sweet gentle rain

Bestowing upon them
the gifts of his purest light
from the farthest
reaches of his universe.

On the earth below
lovers woo and maidens dream
as they have always been
bathing in its magical mist

Bringer of Light

The light bringer watches them
he sees the lovers share a kiss
believing they would capture each fleeting moment
preserve it forever in their memories

But their time was as a grain of sand
the deserts of time belong to him

Poems of Remembrance (W. B. Yeats and Robert Laurence Binyon)

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
W. B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

For the Fallen

The GreatWar 1914-1918
For the Fallen
Robert Laurence Binyon, by artist William Strang. Laurence Binyon

Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon (1869-1943), published in The Times newspaper on 21st September 1914.

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

The Haunted House, by : Dwayne Leon Rankin

Ghost house Irish landscapes Nigel Borirngton

Ghost house
Irish landscapes
Nigel Borirngton

This last few days here in Ireland have been very wet and winter feels like it has arrived a little early, most of the Autumn leaves have been blown away from the high overnight winds and the cold nights, We have been left with a very wintry landscape.

Walking around Ireland at this time of year brings many great views and for some reason during these months I always feel drawn towards the old houses that still fill our local landscape. These old places are so full of memories and the atmosphere of long passed people and their lives.

Of course this is the also the perfect time of year for some evening ghost story’s, told around a fire while the rain hits the windows and the wind echoes all around your house !!!!

The Haunted House

Dwayne Leon Rankin, USA

Upon the hill, the house there stood,
Dark and left forlorn.
With vines that covered there the walls,
All seen full of thorn.

Surrounded by a gated fence,
No other entrance shown.
Dead leaves covered all the ground,
With weeds there overgrown.

Paint all pealed and windows cracked,
With shutters cov’ring all,
No noise from it was ever heard,
Not even birds sweet call.

Three full stories ‘gainst the sky,
Cheerless there and cold.
No one lived there was the word,
In stories that were told.

West cork ghost house 2

Tall old trees kept all in shadows,
Tangled bushes bare.
All dead and ugly there to see,
They say it once was fair.

Once it was a wondrous place,
Full of love and light,
Until one ev’ning came that call,
To give those round a fright.

A family lived there many years,
A husband and his wife.
With two small children of their own,
Living there a happy life.

But then one dark and dreary eve,
A scream rang out from there.
Terrible was that hideous sound,
Full of deep despair.

West cork ghost house 3

No one knew from whence it came,
That frightful mad’ning sound.
When they checked up in that house,
Not a soul was found.

No sign of that family seen,
Who lived there in that house.
Not a living thing was found,
Not even there a mouse,

All quiet there the house now stands,
No lights nor sound there heard.
Only there the rustling winds,
Nothing there occurred.

But for once a year there brought,
The same self night each year.
A lone sad waling sound would ring,
Out there loud and clear.

They used to check it out each time,
But nothing there was found.
The doors still locked with windows shut,
With nothing there around.

That house remains there all alone,
Haunted there they say.
Just sitting in all disrepair,
Empty to this day.


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