Sunset in the woods , Images and a Poem
killamery Woodlands . County Kilkenny
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Yesterday evening I went for a evening walk in Killamery, one of our local woodlands, The Sunset was wonderful and the Sky a deep blue, the moment was charged with atmosphere and I just wanted it to last a little longer than I knew it possibly could.
I took these images to capture the moment and later just put down these words.
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Sunset in the woods
As the sun falls away over the trees
I am cold like the colours in the sky.
Blue and crazy for the woods around me.
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Beautifully arranged trees and painfully separated.
I follow down this woodland path.
Hoping that the Sun will stay on the Horizon.
Just giving me one more moment to be lost.
Sunrise from the Mountains, Poem by : Anna Katherine Green
Knockanaffrin,Comeragh Mountains, County Waterford
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Sunrise from the Mountains
Poem by : Anna Katherine Green
Hung thick with jets of burning gold, the sky
Crowns with its glorious dome the sleeping earth,
Illuminating hill and vale. O’erhead,
The nebulous splendor of the milky way
Stretches afar; while, crowding up the heavens,
The planets worship ‘fore the thrones of God,
Casting their crowns of gold beneath His feet.
It is a scene refulgent! and the very stars
Tremble above, as though the voice divine
Reverberated through the dread expanse.
But soft! a change!
A timid creeping up of gray in east–
A loss of stars on the horizon’s verge–
Gray fades to pearl and spreads up zenithward,
The while a wind runs low from hill to hill,
As if to stir the birds awake, rouse up
The nodding trees, and draw off silence like
A garment from the drowsy earth. The heavens
Are full of points of light that go and come
And go, and leave a tender ashy sky.
The pearl has pushed its way to north and south,
Save where a line spun ‘tween two peaks at east,
Gleams like a cobweb silvered by the sun.
It grows–a gilded cable binding hill
To hill! it widens to a dazzling belt
Half circling earth, then stretches up on high–
A golden cloth laid down ‘fore kingly feet.
Thus spreads the light upon the heavens above,
While earth hails each advancing step, and lifts
Clear into view her rich empurpled hills,
To keep at even beauty with the sky.
The neutral tints are deeply saffroned now;
In streaks, auroral beams of colored light
Shoot up and play about the long straight clouds
And flood the earth in seas of crimson. Ah,
A thrill of light in serpentine, quick waves,
A stooping of the eager clouds, and lo,
Majestic, lordly, blinding bright, the sun
Spans the horizon with its rim of fire!
Landscape from the Irish Hills and a Poem By : S. Weir Mitchell
Landscape from the Irish hills
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The hills of the South east of Ireland are on of my favourite locations to wander and go for long walk, they are not as spectacular as the peaks of the Kerry mountains but there is a stillness here. Space to think and clear your mind and just walk and photograph the landscape.
I will let the words of the below poem say everything else for me, complimenting just how much I like these locations in the soft Irish hills.
S. Weir Mitchell
HERE have I wandered often these many years
Far from the world’s restraint, my heart at ease,
With equal liberty of joy or tears
To welcome Nature’s generosities,
Where these gray summits give the unburdened mind
To clearer thought, in freedom unconfined.
Kind to the dreamer is this solitude.
Fair courtesies of silence wait to know
What hopes are flattering a poet mood,
Stirred by frail ecstasies that come and go,
Like birds that let the quivering leaves prolong
The broken music of their passing song.
Here may we choose what company shall be ours;
Here bend before one fair divinity
To whose dear feet we bring the spirit-flowers,
Fragments of song, stray waifs of poetry,
The orphans of dead dreams, more sweet than aught
Won by decisive days of sober thought.
Landscape of the Irish hills a Gallery
To the River a Poem by : Edgar Allan Poe
Sun set over the river Suir, County Tipperary
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
To the River (1829)
by : Edgar Allan Poe
(1809-1849)
Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty-the unhidden heart-
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto’s daughter;
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But when within thy wave she looks-
Which glistens then, and trembles-
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies-
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
Single tree, By : Daniel Dawes
The Single tree on the river Barrow ,
County Kilkenny,
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Single tree
By : Daniel Dawes
I watch the light move across the land,
Gliding across the fields with ease,
Shades of green shifting constantly,
Darkness and light working together.
A single tree simply surviving,
Gracefully accepting all seasons,
Its deep roots keeping it grounded,
Its leaves allowing it to sing its song.
I watch its movement in the breeze,
I since its aliveness,
I feel its stillness,
I understand its far more than its label.
The invisible wind changes direction,
The sun falls behind the clouds,
It becomes colder,
The senses pick this up but the stillness remains.
A thought passes through my mind,
A simple question,
I choose to follow it,
It simply sits in my awareness.
What is this stillness?
That does not change with the environment,
That is unaffected by thought,
That senses the sensations.
I look back to the tree,
The awareness looks back at myself,
The mirror begins to reflect the same thing,
I thank the tree for its lesson.
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening, Poem By : Robert Frost
Boherboy woods and landscape, Cloneen. County Tipperary
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Who’s woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
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My horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
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He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
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The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
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And miles to go before I sleep.
And me with a promises to keep!
The White Lily , By the river bank : Jack Shaka
Images of the River Barrow, County Kilkenny
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The White Lily
By : Jack Shaka
By the river bank
The frogs croak and caress
Hoping along the river bank
From here to there
At a distant
The swallows twitter with fondness
The lilies rupture with the morning sun
The water reeds sway
As the wind blows along
The river bank
But yet….i feel lost
In this scenery of dexteric desires
I feel caught in lifes pedestals
Tender steps i make….
Along the river bank…
Lilies..
The white lily…
That symbolise
The purity of those souls
Enmeshed in loves frame
The white lily
That symbolise
The fire that burns within circles
The white lily that symbolises
Long lost desires
Re-invented and rejuvenated
In this river of dexteric desires
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The white lily
So white…so pure…
By the river bank
I watch the white lily float and dance
Along the river waters
Their is tenderness in the river
The fishes swim with tenderness
The waters flowing
With a lovers moan
Rythmic drums can be heard from afar
Magic everywhere
I sit and stare at the white lily
With a longing yen….
By the river bank.
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Green Mountain
The Comeragh Mountains, Tipperary, Ireland
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Green Mountain
– Li Po. Translated by: A. S. Kline’s
You ask me why I live on Green Mountain ?
I smile in silence and the quiet mind.
Peach petals blow on mountain streams
To earth and skies beyond Humankind.
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You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain?
I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.
As the peach-blossom flows down stream
and is gone into the unknown,
I have a world apart that is not among men.
The Heron by Linda Hogan
A Heron in flight, Galway bay, Ireland
Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Heron
by Linda Hogan
I am always watching
the single heron at its place
alone at water, its open eye,
one leg lifted
or wading without seeming to move.
.
It is a mystery seen
but never touched
until this morning
when I lift it from its side
where it lays breathing.
I know the beak that could attack,
that unwavering golden eye
seeing me, my own saying I am harmless,
but if I had that eye, nothing would be safe.
The claws hold tight my hand,
its dun-brown feathers, and the gray
so perfectly laid down.
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The bird is more beautiful
than my hand, skin more graceful
than my foot, my own dark eye
so much more vulnerable,
the heart beating quickly,
its own language speaking,
You could kill me or help me.
I know you and I have no choice
but to give myself up
and in whatever supremacy of this moment,
hold your human hand
with my bent claws.
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– See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20151#sthash.WSe1sWRE.dpuf
The Pig, By : Roald Dahl
Pigs at Snowdon National park
Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Pig
Roald Dahl
Once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn’t read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn’t puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, ‘By gum, I’ve got the answer! ‘
‘They want my bacon slice by slice
‘To sell at a tremendous price!
‘They want my tender juicy chops
‘To put in all the butcher’s shops!
‘They want my pork to make a roast
‘And that’s the part’ll cost the most!
‘They want my sausages in strings!
‘They even want my chitterlings!
‘The butcher’s shop! The carving knife!
‘That is the reason for my life! ‘
Such thoughts as these are not designed
To give a pig great piece of mind.
Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the floor…
Now comes the rather grisly bit
So let’s not make too much of it,
Except that you must understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
He ate him up from head to toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
It took an hour to reach the feet,
Because there was so much to eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his brainy head
And with a little smile he said,
‘I had a fairly powerful hunch
‘That he might have me for his lunch.
‘And so, because I feared the worst,
‘I thought I’d better eat him first.’
After the storms , Poem By : Boris Pasternak
Storm clouds over County Kilkenny
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
After The Storm
By : Boris Pasternak
The air is full of after-thunder freshness,
And everything rejoices and revives.
With the whole outburst of its purple clusters
The lilac drinks the air of paradise.
The gutters overflow; the change of weather
Makes all you see appear alive and new.
Meanwhile the shades of sky are growing lighter,
Beyond the blackest cloud the height is blue.
An artist’s hand, with mastery still greater
Wipes dirt and dust off objects in his path.
Reality and life, the past and present,
Emerge transformed out of his colour-bath.
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The memory of over half a lifetime
Like swiftly passing thunder dies away.
The century is no more under wardship:
High time to let the future have its say.
It is not revolutions and upheavals
That clear the road to new and better days,
But revelations, lavishness and torments
Of someone’s soul, inspired and ablaze.
Fleeting bird, A poem – a moment in flight.
Capturing a birds flight.
Wildlife Photography : Nigel Borrington
Fleeting bird
Fleeting bird
With wingspan so large
Fleeting
Fleeting bird
I did not see you
until you got up to go
Fleeting bird
In the night
You flapped your wings
And went out of sight
I did not know you were there
Right in front of me
This whole time
Seeming to be watching
Waiting
But you withstood your time
And gave up
Before I could even
Glance up
Then flew away
with nothing
But the view
Of a great opportunity
Fleeting
Flying away
When I Am Among the Trees, Poem by : Mary Oliver
Castlemorris Woodlands , County KIlkenny
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
When I Am Among the Trees
by Mary Oliver
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
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Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
Seeing into the light , By : Diana van den Berg
The Light through the clouds, Suir river valley , Tipperary
Irish landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Seeing the Morning light
By : Diana van den Berg
Dreaming into the light
swimming
flying
embracing
touching
the spreading awareness
warm light
light
losing self in the light
light
finding the harmony of balance
in namaste and ubuntu
and the messages of the clouds
in the light
light
spreading
amongst tall sunpainted autumn grasses
inhaling the unconscious grace
of a giraffe melting into
the late afternoon gold
of light caressing the shadows
and drawing them
into the light
light light…
Captain of the lighthouse. by : Togara Muzanenhamo
Hook head Lighthouse, county Wexford
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
CAPTAIN OF THE LIGHTHOUSE
By : Togara Muzanenhamo
The late hour trickles into morning. The cattle low profusely by the anthill
where brother and I climb and call Land’s End. We are watchmen
overlooking a sea of hazel-acacia-green, over torrents of dust whipping about
in whirlwinds and dirt tracks that reach us as firths.
We man our lighthouse – cattle as ships. We throw warning lights whenever
they come too close to our jagged shore. The anthill, the orris-earth
lighthouse, from where we hurl stones like light in every direction.
Tafara stands on its summit speaking in sea-talk, Aye-aye me lad – a ship’s a-
coming! And hurls a rock at the cow sailing in. Her beefy hulk jolts and turns.
Aye, Captain, another ship saved! I cry and furl my fingers into an air-long
telescope – searching for more vessels in the day-night.
Now they low on the anthill, stranded in the dark. Their sonorous cries haunt
through the night. Aye, methinks, me miss my brother, Captain of the
lighthouse, set sail from land’s end into the deepest seventh sea.
Happy Burns Night ! , Robert Burns Cottage and home place.
Robert Burns Birthplace Museum
Photography : Nigel Borrington
Happy Burns night to everyone who would like the celibate the life and works of this great Scottish poet and Artists.
The following images are from a visit I made last year to his birthplace Museum located in the town of Ayr, Alloway, Scotland
Once again Happy Burns night !!!
Birthplace Museum
Robert Burns Birthplace Museum offers a truly unique encounter with Scotland’s favourite son.
The museum comprises the famous Burns Cottage where the poet was born, the historic landmarks where he set his greatest work, the elegant monument and gardens created in his honour and a modern museum housing the world’s most important collection of his life and works.
The images below I feel show the life that this young poet lived and include the small rooms that he grew up in with his brother and sisters ( Analella, Gilbert and Agnes Burn), the display of the bed they shared and their bed clothes, I felt was just brilliant.
My Secret Spot on the Beach, a Poem and images.
Images of an Irish beach
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
My Secret Spot on the Beach
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 is called mine,
My hidden Beach Spot
Its open, its free, yet guarded and protected
All can find, all can see, but beyond the vision,
belongs to me, My Secret Spot,
On the Beach, in Waterford…
A friend I call to Show my Paradise,
and share the secret rooted
inside my heart, with all my soul,
My loved Beach spot,
Loved , and so very special to me!
The first flowers of Spring
Snow drops, the first flowers of spring
Nature photography : Nigel Borrington
Each January The first flowers of spring are the snow drops, I love to see these flowers, the winter is not yet over, yet they bring into your mind the spring that will soon be here.
Snow drops…..
Early in the Spring
County Kilkenny, woodland landscape
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Early in the Spring
By : James Kent
Early in the spring
Not a leaf has struck the ground
The swallow has yet to sing
And the plowmen are no where to be found
Early in the spring
The forest stands still
And no creature dare come out
Before the sun rises o’er the hill
Early in the spring
The valley holds the morning dew
And its serenity may be captured
By only a certain few
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Early in the spring
The trees turn, brown to green
Many changes occur
But few can be seen
Early in the spring
Or in the latter of fall
No matter the change of season
The evergreen stands tall
The Old Dead Tree, By David Harris
An old dead tree, Kilkenny woodlands
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Old Dead Tree
By : David Harris
The old dead tree stood
gnarled weather torn;
its limbs were now brittle.
What stories could it tell
of the centuries it had lived,
the passing lives it had seen,
and the storms it had weathered
when it was young and strong.
When its foliage was green
and gave shelter from the rain.
Now it stands bare and broken,
a sorry sight to be seen.
It must have been beautiful
when it was young
with its canopy of green,
and a nesting place for little birds
among its evergreen.
Now they only used it
as a resting place whenever they pass by.
The old dead tree,
which had seen so much life.
The Unnamed Lake, Poem by : Frederick George Scott (1861-1944)
The Unnamed Lake,Comeragh Mountains,Co.Waterford
Irish Landscape Photography
The Unnamed Lake
By : Frederick George Scott (1861-1944)
IT sleeps among the thousand hills
Where no man ever trod,
And only nature’s music fills
The silences of God.
Great mountains tower above its shore,
Green rushes fringe its brim,
And o’er its breast for evermore
The wanton breezes skim.
Dark clouds that intercept the sun
Go there in Spring to weep,
And there, when Autumn days are done,
White mists lie down to sleep.
Sunrise and sunset crown with gold
The peaks of ageless stone,
Where winds have thundered from of old
And storms have set their throne.
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No echoes of the world afar
Disturb it night or day,
The sun and shadow, moon and star
Pass and repass for aye.
‘Twas in the grey of early dawn,
When first the lake we spied,
And fragments of a cloud were drawn
Half down the mountain side.
Along the shore a heron flew,
And from a speck on high,
That hovered in the deepening blue,
We heard the fish-hawk’s cry.
Among the cloud-capt solitudes,
No sound the silence broke,
Save when, in whispers down the woods,
The guardian mountains spoke.
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Through tangled brush and dewy brake,
Returning whence we came,
We passed in silence, and the lake
We left without a name.
Images of a rivers flow, Flow a Poem by : Noel McGinnis
As Rivers flow
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
FLOW
By : Noel McGinnis
Be as water is without friction. Flow around the edges of those
within your path. Surround
within your ever-moving
depths those who come to rest
there – enfold them, while never
for a moment holding on. Accept whatever distance others
are moved, within your flow.
Be with them gently, as far as
they allow your strength to take them, and fill with your own being
the remaining space when they are left behind.
When dropping down life’s rapids, froth and bubble into
fragments if you must,
knowing the one of you-now many
will just as many times be one again. And when
you’ve gone as far as you can go,
quietly await your next beginning.
Yesterday’s Sun and wind, a poem for the January sun.
A view of Slievemamon, county Tipperary
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Yesterday’s Sun and wind
By : Ann Copland
She is the wind swift and pure
so rare to find her like this, still innocent
above a sunny afternoon far into tomorrow.
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The wind begins three Counties away
to cool the day, relieve us from the warming sun
Were you not sure she is real?
One day, you may see her, if you look
very close, spheres carry new molecules
Her breath is ice, you’ll feel it early maybe
just a brief gust before the temperatures drop
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Welcome on a January afternoon
by the time we see a branch sway
or a hat tumble, the freezing breath
has warmed to a gentle winter breeze
So much effort, the team who make nature
I’ll let the wind breathe
January Sky. A poem by : Dorothy (Alves) Holmes
Landscape view of south county Kilkenny
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
January Sky
Dorothy (Alves) Holmes
January chill freezes sky –
Early morning silhouette of pines
Are lifeless…
I close the blinds to this pale sky and go to
The east window where the sunrise
Throws kisses to awaken the day,
With promises to make me smile and
Bring the trees to life.
Her promise glows!
Nigel Borrington 
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