The Sail boat , Images and then a poem by : Lee Shetzline
Sail Boat with red sail
Brownsea Island
Poole Harbour, Poole, Dorset
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Sail boat on the Water
By : Lee Shetzline
Crisp triangle of red sail,
Standing to attention like tin soldiers,
Solitary and glowing
Amidst the thick blue smudges of water
One drop of color
Accidentally spilled onto an endless Sea
Too wonderful to remove
Sunset on the River, a Poem By : Jan Weeratunga
River Barrow, County Kilkenny.
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Sunset on the River
Jan Weeratunga, South Africa
Reds, pinks, oranges and gold’s catch the edge of the clouds and slowly turn the evening sky into a canvas waiting to be painted.
The sun’s last ray’s bounce off the cloud’s lining as it sinks gradually beyond the horizon.
Playfully the rays dance off the shimmering surface of the river,
Another fish jumps from the water,
Sending a concertina of ripples to the riverbank’s shoreline.
Golden waves approach as the setting sun sinks slowly below the horizon,
And small waves lap the side of our boat in an unending regular rhythm.
The repetitive knocking of the fender against the hull takes on the beat of the river,
Tapping the boat and shoreline alike,
It’s constant rhythm disturbed only by the wake of a passing boat or water bird landing on its surface.
Crickets join in with their own percussion as the melody is taken up by the surrounding birdlife,
Each chorus, their evening song as they head along the river bank in search of their nights roost.
Insects buzz over the surface, darting this way and that,
As swallows swoop swiftly, snapping them up in their gaping beaks.
.
Against the Western horizon a kingfisher dives into calmer waters bathed in a glorious warm orange light.
To the East the night’s first star is born,
It shimmers and shivers into life,
Just as the river serenely falls to sleep.
Peace is coming to the river as the ‘time between times’ –
That suspended few minutes of sunset –
Links all things in this world in a glorious golden moment before darkness descends.
Gradually the river slips into sleep
And the moon begins to rise and perform her dance across the waters glassy surface;
Replacing her brothers golden rays with her own silver ones.
Silver shimmering light bathes all beneath it,
Only disturbed by an occasional fish breaking free of its watery surrounds,
To be touched and blessed by the moonlight,
Before diving back down to the river bed.
The moon arches across the night sky,
Playing with the stars,
Until her brothers warming rays tell her it is once again time to allow the miracle of night and day to exchange places.
This old house at Glengarriff, count Cork (Image and Poem By : Sherri Ramirez )
Old house at Glengarriff, count Cork
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
This house is very old
By: by Sherri Ramirez
This house is very old.
Yet, it stands so gracefully.
If the walls could only talk.
I bet they’d have a lot to say.
It holds a lot of memories,
buried deep inside.
It seems to stand with attitude,
as if it carries pride.
It stands upon the foundation,
seeming to claim the land.
Refusing to wither from age
with a little help from my man.
Not one room, is a favorite,
each displays a special touch.
It might be old but, we don’t mind.
We love it very much.
5 Images for the week , Friday – Apples and a Poem By : Patrick Kavanagh
An Apple-ripe September morning.
Irish Landscape Photography,
Kilkenny based photographer : Nigel Borrington
Well September is in full flow and one of the most noticeable features of the month is all the Apple trees locally are ready for picking.
Although September marks the end of another summer it offers some of the best gifts of the year.
On An Apple-Ripe September Morning
Patrick Kavanagh
On an apple-ripe September morning
Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment.
The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,
In Cassidy’s haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the threshing
Since last year. O it was delight
To be paying bills of laughter
And chaffy gossip in kind
With work thrown in to ballast
The fantasy-soaring mind.
As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered
As I looked into the drain
If ever a summer morning should find me
Shovelling up eels again.
And I thought of the wasps’ nest in the bank
And how I got chased one day
Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,
How I covered my face with hay.
The wet leaves of the cocksfoot
Polished my boots as I
Went round by the glistening bog-holes
Lost in unthinking joy.
I’ll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,
The best job at the mill
With plenty of time to talk of our loves
As we wait for the bags to fill.
Maybe Mary might call round…
And then I came to the haggard gate,
And I knew as I entered that I had come
Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.
The Hill, a poem by : Jode Cox
Mount Leinster
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Hill
by : Jode Cox
The road keeps getting longer
the farther that I walk
A head wind seems to push me back
I don’t have the breath to talk
My lungs they burn, my heart it pounds
My throat is getting dry
I see a looming hill ahead
And now I want to cry
To you this hill may seem small
To me it is a mountain
I don’t want to ask you for help
I keep going as fast as I can
I slow with every footstep
Until I have to stop
I find a way to busy my self
To pretend there is nothing wrong
.
To admit this trouble to you
Is to admit it to myself
I don’t want to ask of others
I want to do this myself
I feel this is all my fault
If only I could heal
The shame I feel at every gasp
This journey has become too real
If only I was stronger
This disease I could have fought
It silently crept up to me
The illness I don’t want
Each day I am able to do less
No matter how hard I try
For now I can only do my best
You don’t even understand why
..
I used to run and jump and play
Nothing too hard to do
Now the smallest task I take
I must ask for help from you
You think I don’t see the resentment
The bitterness in your face
You think I chose to be sick
To give up on my life in this place
This hill is not enormous
The one you gave to me
I will make it to the top
I will do it just for me
The Occultation of Orion, Poem By : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Orion (constellation)
Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Occultation of Orion
By : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I saw, as in a dream sublime,
The balance in the hand of Time.
O’er East and West its beam impended;
And day, with all its hours of light,
Was slowly sinking out of sight,
While, opposite, the scale of night
Silently with the stars ascended.
Like the astrologers of eld,
In that bright vision I beheld
Greater and deeper mysteries.
I saw, with its celestial keys,
Its chords of air, its frets of fire,
The Samian’s great Aeolian lyre,
Rising through all its sevenfold bars,
From earth unto the fixed stars.
And through the dewy atmosphere,
Not only could I see, but hear,
Its wondrous and harmonious strings,
In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere,
From Dian’s circle light and near,
Onward to vaster and wider rings.
Where, chanting through his beard of snows,
Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes,
And down the sunless realms of space
Reverberates the thunder of his bass.
Beneath the sky’s triumphal arch
This music sounded like a march,
And with its chorus seemed to be
Preluding some great tragedy.
Sirius was rising in the east;
And, slow ascending one by one,
The kindling constellations shone.
Begirt with many a blazing star,
Stood the great giant Algebar,
Orion, hunter of the beast!
His sword hung gleaming by his side,
And, on his arm, the lion’s hide
Scattered across the midnight air
The golden radiance of its hair.
The moon was pallid, but not faint;
And beautiful as some fair saint,
Serenely moving on her way
In hours of trial and dismay.
As if she heard the voice of God,
Unharmed with naked feet she trod
Upon the hot and burning stars,
As on the glowing coals and bars,
That were to prove her strength, and try
Her holiness and her purity.
Thus moving on, with silent pace,
And triumph in her sweet, pale face,
She reached the station of Orion.
Aghast he stood in strange alarm!
And suddenly from his outstretched arm
Down fell the red skin of the lion
Into the river at his feet.
His mighty club no longer beat
The forehead of the bull; but he
Reeled as of yore beside the sea,
When, blinded by Oenopion,
He sought the blacksmith at his forge,
And, climbing up the mountain gorge,
Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.
Then, through the silence overhead,
An angel with a trumpet said,
“Forevermore, forevermore,
The reign of violence is o’er!”
And, like an instrument that flings
Its music on another’s strings,
The trumpet of the angel cast
Upon the heavenly lyre its blast,
And on from sphere to sphere the words
Re-echoed down the burning chords,–
“Forevermore, forevermore,
The reign of violence is o’er!”
Evening ghosts along the river, Images and Poem
River Barrow, County Kilkenny
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Evening ghosts along the river
I could tell you how the river looks
sketched in evening light;
I know the smell of mist so fresh over the river,
and night air that parts like tired curtains,
with wet heat that sighs
and slaps the grass when you move on;
I’ve felt what a violin says
to the heart of the river ghosts
over waters edge,
and how an old man’s voice sounds best after smoking,
but a woman’s is best talking.
There are ghosts on these paths,
but they don’t hunger anymore;
hunger is for the living
not satisfied
with morning light.
Brandon Point, County Kerry , “My sea of dreams” a poem by : Bianca P.B
Brandon Point, County Kerry
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
I have just spend a few day away from my blog and during this time visited County Kerry, walking on the Dingle Peninsula.
I took these images from Brandon Point at the very end of the Peninsula, the weather was a little moody with showers and broken cloud, the light on the sea was amazing and I gave myself lots of time to get some images and take in this wonderful coast line.
My sea of dreams
By : Bianca P.B
A vast expanse of glittering dreams and wishes rocking back and forth to form the waves
This sea the only sea I know that changes its color even from a deep majestic purple to a light azure
It changes from the most profound yellow to a bright grassy green
Atop the horizon of this picture perfect sight, the great sky towers above everything
My sky of miracles
The sky that is as enchanted as my wonderful sea
It too along with the sea changes shade
As from white to black to blue
From a sunset red to a dark violet
From a mellow scarlet to a fiery orange
This seascape portrays beauty and imagination
Brandon Point, County Kerry, Gallery
The Oak tree in Pagan life, Poems and Oak tree stories.
Mighty Oak Tree
By : Russell Sivey
The mighty oak tree sits near
Orange and red leaves
Looking like it is on fire
They clog up the eaves
Beautiful to see Sight
unlike any around In awe completely
The Oak tree in Pagan Mythology
An oak is a tree or shrub in the genus Quercus, of the beech family Fagaceae, having approximately 600 extant species.
The Pagan world gave the Oak tree the following properties :
Planet: Jupiter and Mars
Element: Water
Symbolism: Sovereignty, rulership, power,
Strength & Endurance, Generosity & Protection, Justice & Nobility, Honesty & Bravery
Stone: Diamond, Aventuring
Metal: Gold
Birds: Oriole, Wren
Color: Gold
Deity: The Dagda, The Green Man, Janus, Diana, Cybele, Hecate, Pan
Sabbat: Summer Solstice (Litha)
Folk Names: Jove’s Nuts, Juglans
Medicinal properties:
The medicinal park of the Oak is its bark, because of the strong astringent properties. Internally as a tea it helps fight diarrhea and dysentery. Externally it can be used to treat hemorrhoids, inflamed gums, wounds, and eczema. The tannin found in oak can help reduce minor blistering by boiling a piece of the bark in a small amount of water until a strong solution is reached, and applying to the affected area. To cure frostbite, American folk medicine called for collecting oak leaves that had remained on the tree all through the winter. These leaves were boiled to obtain a solution in which the frostbitten extremities would soak for an hour each day for a week.
Magickal properties:
Dreaming of resting under an oak tree means you will have a long life and wealth. Climbing the tree in your dream means a relative will have a hard time of it in the near future. Dreaming of a fallen oak means the loss of love. If you catch a falling oak leaf you shall have no colds all winter. If someone does get sick, warm the house with an oakwood fire to shoo away the illness. Carry an acorn against illnesses and pains, for immortality and youthfulness, and to increase fertility and sexual potency.
Carrying any piece of the oak draws good luck to you (remember to ask permission and show gratitude.)
Oak twigs bound together with red thread into a solar cross or a pentagram will make a mighty protective talisman for the home, car, or in your desk or locker at work.
“Oaken twigs and strings of red Deflect all harm, gossip and dread.”
Celtic Moon sign – Oak Moon
The oak tree endures what others cannot. It remains strong through challenges, and is known for being almost immortal, as is often attested to by its long life and ability to survive fire, lightning strikes, and devastation. If you were born under this sign, you have the strength of character and purpose to endure, too – no matter what your challenges. Direct your energies wisely, make sure your your risks are well-calculated, and you’ll overcome whatever seemingly “impossible” quests are sent to you.
Written by Kim Rogers-Gallagher, and Llewellyn’s Witches’ Datebook 2000
The Oak moon falls during a time when the trees are beginning to reach their full blooming stages. The mighty Oak is strong, powerful, and typically towering over all of its neighbors. The Oak King rules over the summer months, and this tree was sacred to the Druids. The Celts called this month Duir, which some scholars believe to mean “door”, the root word of “Druid”. The Oak is connected with spells for protection and strength, fertility, money and success, and good fortune. Carry an acorn in your pocket when you go to an interview or business meeting; it will be bring you good luck. If you catch a falling Oak leaf before it hits the ground, you’ll stay healthy the following year.
Growth and fertility spells work best at this time of the year. Focus on building and consolidation your wisdom, endurance and security.
Lesson of the Oak
from The Wisdom of Trees
by Jane Gifford
The oak represents courage and endurance and the protective power of faith. The tree’s noble presence and nurturing habit reassured ancient peoples that, with the good will of their gods, their leader, and their warriors, they could prevail against all odds. As the Tree of the Dagda, the oak offers protection and hospitality without question, although its true rewards are only apparent to the honest and brave. The ancient Celts deplored lies and cowardice.
To be judged mean spirited could result in exclusion from the clan, which was one of the most shameful and most feared of all possible punishments. Like the oak, we would do well to receive without prejudice all those who seek our help, sharing what we have without resentment or reservation. The oak reminds us all that the strength to prevail, come what may, lies in an open mind and a generous spirit. Inflexibility, however, is the oak’s one weakness and the tree is prone to lose limbs in storms.
The oak therefore carries the warning that stubborn strength that resists will not endure and may break under strain.
The Oak Fairy
by Teresa Moorey
Oak is one of the most sacred trees, traditionally prized by the Celts and Druids. The oak fairy is very powerful, and imparts strength and endurance to any who stay within its aura.
Each oak tree is a very metropolis of fairies, and each acorn has its own sprite. Bringing one into the house is a way to enhance contact with the fairy realm. Oak beams are often used to make doors, but the tree itself is a great portal to the other realms.
The oak is associated with many gods all over the world, notably Zeus and Thor. In sacred groves of oak, the Goddess was believed to impart her wisdom through oracles. The oak has sheltered many a king and hero, in myth and real life. The oak spirit is distinct from fairies, and may become very angry if trees are felled or wildlife harmed.
The oak fairy brings courage and a stout heart, necessary to brave the challenges in this world and to journey in the Otherworld. Bearing strength from the heart of the earth, oak fairy can bring steadiness and a deep joy that endures through all.
Oak Tree.
By : Bernard Shaw
I took an acorn and put it in a pot.
I then covered it with earth, not a lot.
Great pleasure was mine watching it grow.
The first budding green came ever so slow.
I watered my plant twice a week
I knew I would transplant it down by the creek.
One day it will be a giant oak,
To shield me from the sun a sheltering cloak.
Lovers will carve their initials in the bark,
An arrow through a heart they will leave their mark.
It will shelter those caught in a fine summers rain,
Under its leafy bows joy will be again.
Creatures of the wilds will claim it for their own,
Squirrels will reside here in their own home.
Birds will build nests and raise their young,
They will sing melodies a chorus well sung.
Under it’s branches grass will grow,
Here and there a wild flower it’s head will show.
My oak tree for hundreds of years will live.
Perhaps the most important thing I had to give.
From Sunday Sunset to Monday Sunrise, Images and Poem
A Kilkenny Sunday Sunset
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Monday
So here we are again , the start of another week.
I have been feeling a little in need of some inspiration this Morning, so sat down and put these images and poem together!
From Sunday Sunset to Monday Sunrise
Today is yet another Monday
I wakeup and wonder about yesterday
Then about today, Monday
Sunday to Monday, Yesterday
Just passing the days
Deep orange Sunsets,a rhythm in my heart
Is It all just a painting
A dream on the edge of a disk?
Sunday, Monday, Yesterday
I am sometimes without you
No Light to guide my way
How can I be expected to see the way
While seeing only you
Even while your gone
Sunday, Monday, Yesterday
I am at a silent age
When You’re not with me
Come great Star
Run to me with your light
Guide my way
Sunday, Monday, Yesterday
Ancient Disk of light
Monday
and
I am with you.
Tell it to the lighthouse boy, Poem by Maddie
Valentia Island Lighthouse, County Kerry
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Tell it to the lighthouse boy
By : Maddie
Tell it to the lighthouse boy
the sleepy-eyed resounding boy,
tell it to the lighthouse boy,
who wakes his days away.
Sing it to the lighthouse boy
the bright-mouthed smiling smart-ass boy,
sing it to the lighthouse boy,
solemn, sweet, and still.
Cry it to the lighthouse boy,
the hold you close and call-out boy,
cry it to the lighthouse boy,
who thinks his thoughts alone.
Fling it to the lighthouse boy,
the bending low and catch it boy,
fling it to the lighthouse boy,
to carry on his own.
and oh,
did you ever see eyes so sad?
blue-green as the foaming sea they watch,
stiller than still and deeper than you can imagine,
gazing to your depths and
speaking nothing of them.
so tell it to the lighthouse boy,
the sleepy-eyed resounding boy.
Tell it to the lighthouse boy,
who casts it out to sea.
Afternoon At The Lake, Poem By : Sandi Vander Sluis
Carraigbraghan lake, county Waterford
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Afternoon At The Lake
by Sandi Vander Sluis
I sit by the lake on this wondrous day,
watching the reflection of flowering trees,
rippling past watching appreciative eyes.
Breathing in the smell of glorious summer,
as chattering frogs and birds sing,
their way of celebrating the new season.
The lush green forest surrounds and protects me.
Soft fluffy white clouds in the blue sky above
play peekaboo with the bright yellow sun.
I feel a peaceful feeling overtaking me
and my spirits seem to soar from within
just like the eagle circling, floating above.
The wind softly whispers through the trees,
as I rest on the soft green bed beneath me,
drinking it all in – glad to be one with nature.
Evening light across the fields/Across the fields : Gallery and Poem
Evening Light across the fields, County Kilkenny
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Across the fields
Taken from a poem By : Imp y Celyn
I was just listening to songs from years gone by,
To make me feel the way I did then,
Does this count as masochism?
Gotta run till you drop
Run till you fly into the sunset
Walk for aeons to get to your door
To walk beside you and remember your skin, your hips
Your eyes are so dark, so dark now the sun’s on the horizon
So beautiful; does beauty negate honesty?
Honestly
How do I stand in your presence
Walk the fields with an invisible crown
Just to see what’s going on
Just to make it a little bit more in this life
Sunsets never mean the same
Each sun sets on a different you and me
I want to crown you in violets
So they’ll blaze blood glory in this light
As timeless spirits walk together
Through space, time always plays out the same way
Maybe ours will be a chaste attachment
Right,
And maybe tomorrow,
There you’ll be, leaning back on your throne
And grinning as you spin your fiddle in the air
I can watch the sunrise
But I’d rather lie down with you again
And see sunset paint your face in amber
So I can wash it away with my tears
Because I’ve just been touched by Ancient Gods
Did you know you make me Believe?
The secret of the fox, A Poem
Image of a Fox in old dead wood,
Photography : Nigel Borrington
The secret of the fox
is an ancient mystery
Held somewhere deep in the woods.
I know he is hiding.
What is his sound?
Will we ever know
Will it always be a mystery
What would he say?
“The Fox” by Ylvis
My secret Spot on Newtown beach.
My secret spot, somewhere near Newtown , County Waterford
Landscape photogrpahy : Nigel Borrington
My Secret spot
To a few I showed my secret Spot,
To many I reveal it is on The Beach,
In Waterford, still without my help,
none may find, because its called mine,
My hidden Newtown Beach Spot
Its open, its free, its peaceful and protected
All can find, all can see, but beyond the vision,
belongs to me, My Secret Loved Spot,
On the Beach, in Newtown…
A friend I call to Show my Paradise,
and share the secret rooted
inside my heart, with all my soul,
My loved Newtown Beach
Blessed, and so dear to me!
A Poem : look up at the sky, By : Raj Arumugam
The sky above Slievenamon, county Tipperary
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
look up at the sky
Oh, do look up at the sky.
look up at the sky that stretches in all directions and wherever one may turn
look up at the sky all above and that falls beyond the end of the visible earth
look up at the sky that stretches beyond one’s vision and look beyond the sky into limitless space
See, time and care and the narrowness of one’s conditioning confine one and bends one’s mind – as one’s back is bent, and one’s neck is loaded down; and one’s eyes are fixed to the spotlight-defined meters as one stands one’s ground…Oh, but just look up at the sky
Look up at the sky in the day and see its deep blue
look up at the sky and see the clouds and the sun,
the brilliance and the lack of limits and confines
look up at the sky in the morning and see the sun rise,
behold its wonder and its colors
look up at the sky at twilight and look at it at night
with the moon and the stars and the infinite space that stretches beyond
look up at the sky and behold its wonders and splendour and its power
look up at the sky and the space beyond and behold its brilliance and limitlessness.
Oh, look up at the sky and the space beyond – and behold the limitlessness of the mind
behold there the infinite stretch of your mind,
behold the skies and space, and behold the power and glory and the unconfined,
unconditioned freedom and brilliance of your mind and your being,
of the unconfined mind and of unconditioned being…
Kilkenny’s Standing stones, Time – a Poem by : Anthony Zeigler
Standing stone at Owning, County Kilkenny
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
County Kilkenny has many Standing stones, often located on farm land and hidden from public eyes.
They are a reminder of times past, long ago, so long few know their original purpose or anything about the people who first erected them.
It is thought that they were used to mark the passing of time , the Hours, days and months of the year.
Time
By : Anthony Zeigler
Time is where we are
And time is where we’ve been
Time is being lost
And found again
Time is the day we were born
the day we die
Time is the hours that pass
As they come just then fly
Time is what we know
what we learn
Time is what it is
Some times it will hunt and some times it will burn
Time is all we have
Though it seems so little
Time is all around us
We are caught in the middle
Time is when we’re there
what we’ve missed
Time is our biggest fear
But we try to make the best of it
Sunlight in the Glen , Sunday evening Poem by : Jan Allison And Mel Merrill
Cahirabbey woods, Cahir, County Tipperary
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
This evening I went for a Sunday walk in Cahirabbey woods, county Tipperary, the evening light was shining through the trees in the glen and it reminded me of the below poem that I found recently.
Sunlight in the Glen
Collaboration Poem By Jan Allison And Mel Merrill
Dappled sunlight dancing among the trees in the wooded glen
Lingering amongst the wood where it has ancient been
She dances fast, and sometimes slow, the tempo ever changing.
Gentle breeze she stirs the trees; the mood is scintillating
The crystal clear water sparkles with a silvery light
Like diamonds splayed on velvet, or a starry, starry night
Shafts of sunlight fall on the crumbling old stone wall
Shedding light on these, the wall and trees, near brook and waterfall
Nature’s beauty, boundless, in this timeless timid wood
We walk the paths so often trod where ancient feet have stood
Each scattered ray comes out to play in primordial den
How privileged I, that I could spy, this sunlight in the glen
Celebrating Mid summers day 2014
Mid summers sunset over Slievenamon, county tipperary,
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Mid summers day 2014
Happy Mid summers day !!!
This mornings sunrise over slievenamon county Tipperary was at 04:57am and by the time it sets again on the other side to the west the time will be 21:57 , thats seventeen hours of sun light and the most anyone can witness during the suns movement across the sky during any one year.
Today is also called the Summer Solstice
Solstice, or Litha means a stopping or standing still of the sun. It is the longest day of the year and the time when the sun is at its maximum elevation.
Wiccan blessing for Summer
As the sun spirals its longest dance,
Cleanse us
As nature shows bounty and fertility
Bless us
Let all things live with loving intent
And to fulfill their truest destiny
This date has had spiritual significance for thousands of years as humans have been amazed by the great power of the sun. The Celts celebrated with bonfires that would add to the sun’s energy, Christians placed the feast of St John the Baptist towards the end of June and it is also the festival of Li, the Chinese Goddess of light.
Pagans are in awe of the incredible strength of the sun and the divine powers that create life. For Pagans this spoke in the Wheel of the Year is a significant point. The Goddess took over the earth from the horned God at the beginning of spring and she is now at the height of her power and fertility. For some Pagans the Summer Solstice marks the marriage of the God and Goddess and see their union as the force that creates the harvest’s fruits.
This is a time to celebrate growth and life but for Pagans, who see balance in the world and are deeply aware of the ongoing shifting of the seasons it is also time to acknowledge that the sun will now begin to decline once more towards winter.
Lugh (Celtic) god of the summer soltice
Similar to the Roman god Mercury, Lugh was known as a god of both skill and the distribution of talent. He is associated with midsummer because of his role as a harvest god, and during the summer solstice the crops are flourishing, waiting to be plucked from the ground at Lughnasadh.
The Harbour, Poem By : Winifred Mary Letts
The Harbour, Poem
By : Winifred Mary Letts
I think if I lay dying in some land
Where Ireland is no more than just a name,
My soul would travel back to find that strand
From whence it came.
I’d see the harbour in the evening light,
The old men staring at some distant ship,
The fishing boats they fasten left and right
Beside the slip.
The fishing boat rests along the shore,
The grey thorn bushes growing in the sand,
Our Wexford coast from Arklow to Cahore –
My native land.
The little houses climbing up the hill
Sea daises growing in the sandy grass,
The tethered goats that wait large -eyed and still
To watch you pass.
The women at the well with dripping pails,
Their men colloguing by the harbour wall,
The coils of rope, the nets, the old brown sails,
I’d know them all.
And then the sun- I’d surely see
The disk against a golden sky.
Would let me be at my rest.
The Foxglove bells, a poem By : Mary Webb
The Foxglove bells
By : Mary Webb
The foxglove bells, with lolling tongue,
Will not reveal what peals were rung
In Faery, in Faery,
A thousand ages gone.
All the golden clappers hang
As if but now the changes rang;
Only from the mottled throat
Never any echoes float.
Quite forgotten, in the wood,
Pale, crowded steeples rise;
All the time that they have stood
None has heard their melodies.
Deep, deep in wizardry
All the foxglove belfries stand.
Should they startle over the land,
None would know what bells they be.
Never any wind can ring them,
Nor the great black bees that swing them–
Every crimson bell, down-slanted,
Is so utterly enchanted.
Orchids, A poem By : Cassandra Huller
Early March Orchid
Photography : Nigel Borrington
Orchids
By : Cassandra Huller
Round is the shape,
Pink are the petals.
Stem long and tall,
Leaves fluttered over, bent but not broken.
Roots deep in dirt,
Surrounded by a wall.
Some flowers fall but always rebloom~
Nothing Gold Can Stay, Poem By : Robert Frost
Nothing Gold Can Stay
By : Robert Frost
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
In The Stump of The Old Tree, Poem By : Hugh Sykes Davies
The old Tree at Coolagh, county Kilkenny
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
In The Stump of The Old Tree
By Hugh Sykes Davies
In the stump of the old tree, where the heart has rotted out, there is a hole the length of a man’s arm, and a dank pool at the bottom of it where the rain gathers, and the old leaves turn into lacy skeletons. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees, where the hearts have rotted out, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and dank pools at the bottom where the rain gathers and old leaves turn to lace, and the beak of a dead bird gapes like a trap. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees with rotten hearts, where the rain gathers and the laced leaves and the dead bird like a trap, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and in every crevice of the rotten wood grow weasel’s eyes like molluscs, their lids open and shut with the tide. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees where the rain gathers and the trapped leaves and the beak and the laced weasel’s eyes, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and at the bottom a sodden bible written in the language of rooks. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are holes the length of a man’s arm where the weasels are trapped and the letters of the rook language are laced on the sodden leaves, and at the bottom there is a man’s arm. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are deep holes and dank pools where the rain gathers, and if you ever put your hand down to see, you can wipe it in the sharp grass till it bleeds, but you’ll never want to eat with it again.
Nigel Borrington 
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