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…
Sunday evening poem : Rippling stream’s circle
River Lingaun, County Tipperary
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Rippling stream’s circle
By: Chris Matt
Out here watching the water flow by.
Talking to the wind, waiting for a reply.
I don’t know what it is about this stream I admire.
Like camping and gathering around watching the fire.
There is something about these inanimate objects.
It maybe the simplicity of beauty it reflects.
How it unconditionally forms over all in its liquidity.
It is the foundation of life being perfect in its ubiquity.
Watching this stream, there is so much to learn and gain.
This water can teach you, watch, as it starts as rain.
High above in the clouds, then it falls to the top of the peak.
As it slowly drips to the bottom, it mixes in with a creek.
It flows in a small brook, then ends up in this stream,
but it will one day rise up again to the clouds, as steam.
Like waters circle of life, we need to come together as one.
The lessons that we’ve learned here, have only just begun.
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
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.
Last night I walked along the river, after the rain – Images and a Poem
Sunset along the river Suir, County Tipperary
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Sometimes when I am out walking and taking pictures, I also use my phone to jot down some words then later use these to write a Poem.
I feel that words and poems – along with images are connected with one another in a big way. I love to share both here on this blog and I often share poems from people who share their work on poetry web sites, matching them to what I feel are related images I have taken.
This time the post is mixing my own Poem and Images from an evening walk along the river Suir, after a rain storm at the start of June.
————————————
Last night I Walked along the river after the rain
Last night in my dreams along the river I walked,
it rained and rained, The floods of June.
There will always be sunshine after the rain
Perhaps I walked , perhaps even ran,
Towards the Setting evening Sun.
.
It lights up the river, I see every rushing and flowing drop,
The warmth from its light can calm every dreaming fear.
After it sets below the trees,
my dreams much deeper,
still linger throughout the night,
But suddenly vanish at dawn’s early light.
Poem and images : Nigel Borrington
A Grain Of Sand, Poem by Robert William Service
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
A Grain Of Sand
Poem by Robert William Service
If starry space no limit knows
And sun succeeds to sun,
There is no reason to suppose
Our earth the only one.
‘Mid countless constellations cast
A million worlds may be,
With each a God to bless or blast
And steer to destiny.
Just think! A million gods or so
To guide each vital stream,
With over all to boss the show
A Deity supreme.
Such magnitudes oppress my mind;
From cosmic space it swings;
So ultimately glad to find
Relief in little things.
For look! Within my hollow hand,
While round the earth careens,
I hold a single grain of sand
And wonder what it means.
Ah! If I had the eyes to see,
And brain to understand,
I think Life’s mystery might be
Solved in this grain of sand.
Between The Sunflowers , Poem by : Andrew Lea
Sunflowers from the Garden
Photography : Nigel Borrington
Between The Sunflowers
He sat between the sunflowers, counting the ants as they crawled across his toes. “27”…”28″—He paused, swearing that he’d seen this one before. “What the hell, 29.”
He sat beneath the oak tree in his back yard, sticky from sunflower sap. The sun, hot and high, rested in the sky strait above him. He would often stare at it, until his eyes stung and he could see the purple spots even after he looked away.
.
He was running, through the halls in the decaying house. Running from the invisible phantoms with their malevolent smiles and sinister goals. Running from the silhouette at the end which was shaped much like his father, only far too tall. Running, with starving lungs and heavy feet as the floor screamed and walls shook, as the windows began to fracture and the entire foundation was torn from the earth under the weight of his fear.
Running, towards the sunflowers, which stood and beautiful under the afternoon sun.
A Farmer by Trade, Poem By : Kevin Pace
A Farmer by Trade
Ballytobin, County Kilkenny
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
A Farmer by Trade
Poem By : Kevin Pace
He worked on the land, a farmer by trade.
He never will know the impact he made.
When plowing the fields, his mind would be filled
with lessons in life he taught and instilled.
“Life’s pretty simple” my grandpa would claim,
“The rules we should live by are always the same.”
He delivered his thoughts in a wry kind of style.
You’d think he was mad, but then he would smile.
.
He was always profound, a man of his word.
He would always look forward despite what occurred.
“I’ve never reaped anything I didn’t first sow.
The seeds that you plant is the crop that will grow.
Fix your eyes on a spot, if you want to plow straight.
If you need to start over, it’s never too late.”
One thing I remember, he often would share,
“Don’t tear down a fence, ‘til you know why it’s there.
Some fences are built to keep danger away,
some fences are built so we’ll know where to stay.”
His philosophy in life was to, “Let people be.
I’m not here to judge, lest they should judge me.”
“Some things are better off left on the ground,
manure doesn’t stink ‘til you stir it around.”
The best thing he taught me was how I could find
the answer to anything crossing my mind.
Whatever I’d ask him, he’d get out the Book,
saying, “God wrote it down, if you take time to look.”
He understood things that few understand.
A farmer by trade, he worked on the land.
The Bridge Builder , Poem by : Will Allen Dromgoole
The Bridge at the Vee, County Tipperary
Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Bridge Builder
By Will Allen Dromgoole
An old man going a lone highway,
Came, at the evening cold and gray,
To a Valley vast and deep and wide.
Through which was flowing a sullen stream
The old man crossed in the twilight dim,
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned when safe on the other side
And built a bridge to span the tide.
“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,
“You are wasting your strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day,
You never again will pass this way;
You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
Why build this bridge at evening tide?”
The builder lifted his old gray head;
“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,
“There followed after me to-day
A person whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been as naught to me
To that fair-haired person may a pitfall be;
They, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!”
Rhododendron laden hillsides, Poem and Image gallery.
Rhododendron at the Vee, County Tipperary
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Rhododendron laden hillsides
Summer
Comes ’round again,
Bringing life back to flow’rs.
Roses shall start to bloom once more,
And mighty White Oaks shall be green with leaves.
Rhododendron laden hillsides
And Lady Slippers nod:
Slowly fading
Summer.
~Timothy~
Rhododendron hills , Image Gallery
Ghost house , Poem By : Robert Frost – 1915
Derelict old house at Durrow , Co Laois, Ireland.
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Ghost House
Robert Frost (1915)
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
Sunset over the mountain of Slievenamon , Star break and Poem.
Sunset over slievenamon, County Tipperary
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Evening walks near the mountain of Slievenamon, county Tipperary can bring some great evening views, the sun sets right over the top on the mountain where there is a cairn, a burial place of a king dating back over six thousand year.
On one of these walks I was lucky enough to get these sunset images and I put some words to them in this poem:
Star break, a Poem
Behind the High cloud the sun is coiling and uncoiling
a dragon wrapped around itself spitting fire behind the mountain top
For a moment as I think of older days it is eclipsed entirely
aith a hidden God in the ground where six thousand years ago
A star fell from nowhere and lit up this very mountain’s top
turning westward by day, into oblivion leaving its mark.
.
A king wise in these things called this a “star break”
and of no danger to the integrity of his vision
Star, soon the mountain will shrug you off you will drop below
the ragged edge line into tomorrow while I take the only path.
I came to find what I left, now ahead of me and waiting behind
a light of dawn, time of ages drifting through the night.
Me…..
Images from a field of blue bells – Poem : ‘The Bright Field’ by R. S. Thomas
Our dog Molly, In the Blue bells field, Slievenamon, County Tipperary
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Located on the west slopes of Slievenamon , County Tipperary, is a small yet wonderful little field .
To reach it you have to walk some thirty minutes through wood-lands and up a mountain track, finally reaching a gate. The site that welcomes you in May is that of a field full of blue bells and an old derelict farm cottage. This cottage would be able to tell some amazing stories and if it only could!
Above the field are the mountain slopes that I am much more use to seeing, with mountain heather and scrub lands, streams and baths.
I have visited this field many times, its a great location during the summer and a wonderful escape and resting place after a walk to the top of the mountain.
I just wanted to share one of my most loved local locations here and also one of my most loved Poems by R. S. Thomas, which I feel is perfect for this post ….
The Bright Field
by R. S. Thomas
I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the
pearl of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realise now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying
on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.
The field a Gallery
Slievenamon on May mornings. Poem By : John Milton
Fields around Slievenamon, early Morning mist
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
On May mornings.
Poem By : John Milton
Now the bright morning Sun,
Comes dancing from the East.
leading with her the Flowers of May,
who from her green lap throws
The Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and valley, doth boast a blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome you, and then wish you a so long.
A May Morning Gallery
The greens of these trees these leaves, poem by : Shalom Freedman
Landscape view of Ballyhenebery. County Kilkenny
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
The greens of these trees these leaves
By : Shalom Freedman
The greens of these trees these leaves
The many shades of green-
Olive green and deep dark green and yellow green
And greens I see but have no name for-
So many shades of light and beauty in green
And I with my eyes loving them all
And delighted and made happy by them all-
.
Wondering why and how this world
Has so so much Beauty
Just in green alone –
And being deep in happiness
At being alive
And loving them more
In wondering why and how
I will not one day
be able to see them all again..
Finding the Silver light of other days , Gallery and a Poem by : Thomas Moore
Memories of silver light, Glencommon, County Kilkenny
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
On the top of the hill at Glencommon, county Kilkenny is the Ghostly remains of an old farm.
Last Sunday morning I took a walk up the hill in the mist with my camera and took these images, it was a very haunting experience but one I really enjoyed.
The poem below by Thomas Moore came to mind as the mist of the day seamed to recreate the past of this wonderful old place, how many memories it must hold yet all of them lost in the mists of time.
The Light of Other Days
By Thomas Moore
1779-1852
Often, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
The smiles, the tears
Of boyhood’s years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm’d and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
When I remember all
The friends, so link’d together,
I’ve seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me.
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
Finding memories in the silver light , Gallery
A misty day , A poem By : Paul Laurence Dunbar
A Misty Day
A Misty Morning on Glencommon hill, County Kilkenny
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
A Misty Day
By : Paul Laurence Dunbar
Heart of my heart, the day is chill,
The mist hangs low o’er the wooded hill,
The soft white mist and the heavy cloud
The sun and the face of heaven shroud.
The birds are thick in the dripping trees,
That drop their pearls to the beggar breeze;
No songs are rife where songs are wont,
Each singer crouches in his haunt.
.
Heart of my heart, the day is chill,
Whene’er thy loving voice is still,
The cloud and mist hide the sky from me,
Whene’er thy face I cannot see.
.
My thoughts fly back from the chill without,
My mind in the storm drops doubt on doubt,
No songs arise. Without thee, love,
My soul sinks down like a frightened dove.
Nigel Borrington 
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