The Pond, By Amy Lowell
The Pond on the hill, Glencommon, County Tipperary
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Pond
By Amy Lowell
Cold, wet leaves
Floating on moss-coloured water
And the croaking of frogs—
Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.
As river flows, Poem by Peter Duggan.
A walk along the river Suir , County Tipperary
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
As River flows.
By : Peter Duggan
As river flows so peacefully
I sit here just content to be
As Ravens fly so high above
This morning, it was made for love
It enters deep into my soul
It’s sweetness making me so whole
This softest morning mystery
Oh, how it reaches out to me
The trees, they dance so gracefully
They wave, and flow upon the breeze
Bird song drifts from happy branches
Oh lord, how this my heart enhances
Silence rules above all this
A kind of stillness filled with bliss
Captivates my very core
Oh, I’d not wish for any more.
The river peaceful, calm and still
So wonderful it makes me feel
As it reflects those dancing trees
I watch and let the morning breeze
Caress my skin so tenderly
Then all is gone, there’s only me
The emptiness of all that is
I’m sailing on the waves of bliss.
River Suir Image Gallery
Freedom of the Hills, Poem by : Douglas Fraser – 1968
Freedom On The foothills of Slievenamon, County Tipperary
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Freedom of the Hills
By: Douglas Fraser – 1968
Mine is the freedom of the tranquil hills
When vagrant breezes bend the sinewy grass,
While sunshine on the widespread landscape spills
And light as down the fleet cloud-shadowed pass.
Mine, still, that freedom when the storm-clouds race,
Cracking their whips against defiant crags
And mists swirl boiling up from inky space
To vanish on the instant, torn to rags.
.
When winter grips the mountains in a vice,
Silently stifling with its pall of snow,
Checking the streams, draping the rocks in ice,
Still to their mantled summits I would go.
Sun-drenched, I sense the message they impart;
Storm-lashed, I hear it sing through every vein;
Among the snows it whispers to my heart
“Here is your freedom. Taste – and come again.”
Damselfly, Poem by : Sara Nummenpää
A Damselfly along the Kings river,
County Kilkenny,
Nature and Wildlife Photography : Nigel Borrington
Damselfly
By : Sara Nummenpää
you’ve swept me away
in your rivers,
completely.
do you know you steal my breath?
I can’t help it, I surrender
to you, so
surround me, encompass me,
cover me with your skin,
your flesh and wings;
lead me, I know you can.
lead me,
for just a while, and
I’ll lead you,
follow you,
until you find
what you are looking for.
.
I am yours to break.
and if you ever want
to forget me for a while,
to lead me no longer –
that is okay,
for you’ve loved me once,
and that is enough.
This morning Light , a Poem
Morning Landscape, County Tipperary
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Tuesday and the Easter holiday weekend is over , I went for an early morning walk and was trying my best to plan the week ahead. Failing in most respects however. I found myself lost in the morning and distracted by just how wonderful the soft light was, we had a light covering of cloud and it resulted in some wonderful light and colours across the fields and woods.
Still a little frustrated as I sat at my desk, I decided to write down some words and share them in a post along with some images I took along my morning walk.
The morning of Tuesday 22nd April 2014.
This morning light
When first morning light comes to reveal the landscape,
There are many thoughts that I ponder in my mind,
last nights dreams fading away.
This mornings sounds should give a clue,
If I could only remember what it is I need to do,
I know it came to me last night, fading fast into the morning light
I walk on past these fields covered in soft light,
What was that dreams I had last night,
Completely gone and washed away,
Taken into yet another day.
Morning Landscapes
Where Go the Boats, A river Poem
Boats on the river Suir, County Tipperary
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Where Go the Boats?
Dark blue is the river.
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.
Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating—
Where will all come home?
.
On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.
Away down the river,
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore
.
Robert Louis, Stevenson
The Blackbird, A Poem by : William Ernest Henley.
A Blackbird, in a kilkenny woodland.
Wildlife photography : Nigel Borrington
The Blackbird
By : William Ernest Henley.
The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark’s is a clarion call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.
For his song is all of the joy of life,
And we in the mad, spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.
Yellow summer daisies, by : Robert Graves
Yellow summer daisies
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
Summer Daisies
Summer daisies, they’re my flowers,
Which nobody else may grow.
In a big quarrelsome house like ours
They try it sometimes—but no,
I root them up because they’re my flowers,
Which nobody else may grow.
Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn’t plant it;
Ben has an iris, but I don’t want it.
Daisies, double Yellow daisies for me,
The beautiful-est flowers in the garden.
The summer daisy, that’s my mark:
I paint it in all my books!
It’s carved high up on the beech-tree bark,
How neat and lovely it looks!
So don’t forget that it’s my trade mark;
Don’t copy it in your books.
Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn’t plant it;
Ben has an iris, but I don’t want it.
Daisies, yellow daisies for me,
The beautiful-est flowers in the garden.
By : Robert Graves
After the Storm, Poem by : Hilen Letiro
Killamery woodlands after the February storms of 2014
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
After the Storm
by Hilen Letiro
The storms may come And limbs may break;
Yet others bend Beneath the weight
Of heavy rain And windy breeze…
A storm can mark The strongest trees.
.
Life sometimes deals With us this way;
In unseen trials We meet each day.
It’s not how much our bodies break
Or how much they may bend;
It’s Our Outlook In Our Own Life
That helps our spirits mend!
Read more at Poem : After the Storm
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.
.
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.
.
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;
.
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.
.
My horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
– 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.’
I have come down from the Mountain, Poem by : Donald J Bennett
Comeragh Mountains, County Waterford
Irish landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
I have come down from the mountain
By : Donald J Bennett
I have come down from the mountain
The mountain of my youthful days
I have stumbled along the rock strewn path
The path of life that leads downward towards my final days
The long journey has rendered me bruised and battered
But I have found a trove of treasure along the way
The love of my family, and my friends are the treasures
These are the treasures that I hold so dear each and every day
This Morning I shared a post talking about an old lens ( A Tamrom 24mm f2.5 lens) I have owned for many years, the images here are taken very recently using this lens.
Down from the Mountain a Gallery
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.
.
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.
Nigel Borrington 
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