The Jackdaw, by : William Cowper
Jackdoors at Kells Priory, County Kilkenny
Irish Wildlife Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Jackdaw
by : William Cowper
There is a bird who, by his coat
And by the hoarseness of his note,
Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch,
And dormitory too.
Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate
From what point blows the weather.
Look up — your brains begin to swim,
‘Tis in the clouds — that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.
.
Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence securely sees
The bustle and the rareeshow,
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.
.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.
.
He sees that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs and its businesses,
Is no concern at all of his,
And says — what says he? — Caw.
.
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men;
And, sick of having seen ’em,
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine
And such a head between ’em.
Beyond the Sea, Poem by Thomas Peacock.
Fujifilm X100
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Beyond the Sea
Thomas Peacock
Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,
My heart is gone, far, far from me;
And ever on its track will flee
My thoughts, my dreams, beyond the sea.
Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,
The swallow wanders fast and free:
Oh, happy bird! were I like thee,
I, too, would fly beyond the sea.
Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,
Are kindly hearts and social glee:
But here for me they may not be;
My heart is gone beyond the sea.
November comes And November goes, a Poem by Elizabeth Coatsworth.
Autumn colours in county Kilkenny,
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
November comes
– Elizabeth Coatsworth
November comes And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
Harbour Lighthouse, Crinan, Scotland, (Harbour Lights) Poem by Ernestine Northover.
Harbour Lighthouse, Crinan, Argyll, Scotland
Landscape photography: Nigel Borrington
Harbour Lights
By: Ernestine Northover
The harbour lights are beckoning,
Our stout boat is riding high,
By the distant view, we’re reckoning,
We are nearly home and dry.
We’ve travelled many an ocean,
And weathered storms so wild,
Of the seas, we have a notion,
By it all, we’ve been beguiled.
There’ve been times when we have wavered,
And times when concern was rife,
Many moments we have savoured,
And pondered upon this life.
But seafaring days are our days,
And when all is said and done,
These seas attract, in such special ways,
And conquering them can be fun.
But, like now, we’re to base returning,
Friends and family to meet and greet,
There’s a rest from the sea’s endless churning,
Somewhere solid to plant our feet.
Now the harbour lights are gleaming,
And the sails relax their strain,
Our faces begin their beaming,
For we’re safely back home again.
© Ernestine Northover
Sunrise from the Mountains, By : Anna Katherine Green (1846-1935)
Sigma x3 slr camera, 18-50mm f3.5 – f4.5 lens
Slievenamon, county Tipperary
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Sunrise from the Mountains, By : Anna Katherine Green (1846-1935)
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!
Old Houses – A poem by, Robert Cording
Old cottage, Bansha, county Tipperary
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Old Houses
By Robert Cording
Year after year after year
I have come to love slowly
how old houses hold themselves—
before November’s drizzled rain
or the refreshing light of June—
as if they have all come to agree
that, in time, the days are no longer
a matter of suffering or rejoicing.
I have come to love
how they take on the color of rain or sun
as they go on keeping their vigil
without need of a sign, awaiting nothing
more than the birds that sing from the eaves,
the seizing cold that sounds the rafters.
Images from a walk in the setting Autumn sun and a Poem by Rebecca Dobson .
Nikon D700
Sleivenamon, country Tipperary
Under the setting Autumn sun
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
On an Autumn evening as I was out walking with our dog , I watched the sunset over the mountaim of Slievenamon, county Tipperary in the distance.
My mind was clear as I was just enjoying the view.
I have been looking for a way to describe the feeling I had and found the following Poem .
The Aftermath
Rebecca Dobson
The final fragments of my shattered
mind slip into place
alongside
Random thoughts and jagged
edges
I disintegrate from the outside inwards
slightly blurred
edges
and I flutter inside
(excited child) , I feel hollow and empty and a
warmth, and my nose is raw
and crystals gather at my nostrils
Electric, almost static
I float and fumble
and agitations tickle my spine and my scalp
Sniff and cough, they grate against my brain
and scratch discomfort into my buzz;
I float on higher plane
and feel conscious, feel able.
.
I talk with a wired mouth
and words are laborious and stick to my lips
Suspended in wakefulness I skip work
and relish in my openness of mind
and free thought
and I think I am happy
The Lighthouse – by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
Sigma Sd15, 15-30mm lens
Dungarvan Lighthouse, County Waterford
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
The Lighthouse
By, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
And on its outer point, some miles away,
The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.
Even at this distance I can see the tides,
Upheaving, break unheard along its base,
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
In the white lip and tremor of the face.
And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
Through the deep purple of the twilight air,
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light
With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare!
Not one alone; from each projecting cape
And perilous reef along the ocean’s verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,
Holding its lantern o’er the restless surge.
Like the great giant Christopher it stands
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
The night-o’ertaken mariner to save.
And the great ships sail outward and return,
Bending and bowing o’er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,
They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.
They come forth from the darkness, and their sails
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,
And eager faces, as the light unveils,
Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.
The Red Barn Remembers
Fujifilm x100
The old red barn. kells, county Kilkenny
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
The Red Barn Remembers
The red barn stands, silhouetted against the sky.
A tree wraps its young limbs about her
as if to protect her from time and age.
Her roof is sagging, color faded ,
An errant plume of red along her frame.
.
Yet, proudly she stands, remembrance of a happy time.
Shelter from the rain, children
Playing in her hair, lovers hiding in her shadows.
Beauty I see now, not bright, not boastful.
With dignity and respect she bows to age.
October In The Mountains
Slievenamon, a mountain in october
irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
October In The Mountains
by : Aletha Rappaport
The North Wind does blow,
His chilly fingers on my face
Tell me it is time to go –
To leave our mountain home
And seek a warmer clime
Before ice forms on the lake.
How can winter be so close?
The woods are alive with color –
.
Yellow, yellow and more yellows
Of every shade and hue –
Reds and orange, browns and russet too.
Autumn having her last fling
Before submitting to Winter’s icy sting.
The Waterwheel, by Jalaluddin Rumi
Nikon D300
The Waterwheel at kells, County Kilkenny
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
The Waterwheel
Stay together, friends.
Don’t scatter and sleep.
Our friendship is made
of being awake.
The waterwheel accepts water
and turns and gives it away,
weeping.
That way it stays in the garden,
whereas another roundness rolls
through a dry riverbed looking
for what it thinks it wants.
Stay here, quivering with each moment
like a drop of mercury.
Sunday evening Poem
Fuji film x100
Kilkenny landscape view
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Today is the tomorrow
By Neol Cronin
Always on the horizon but never here,
Travelling towards, but never near,
Never sure of what’s in store
No matter what, we will always want more.
Tomorrow’s a day, full of great hope,
Because maybe today, we just cannot cope.
Tomorrow is the day, to us no-one can give.
Tomorrow is the day, we will never live.
.
Our being is the present, the here and now.
Our hope – is tomorrow, somewhere, somehow
Tomorrow’s the pipedream, we have today
Today is the tomorrow, we sought yesterday.
Now that Autumn has begun (Two Autumn Poems)
Autumn colours in the Landscape
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Autumn
By : Dorian Petersen Potter
Autumn comes singing in
Displaying her treasures’ galore.
So prettily dressed she grins
Spreading more beauty than before
She transforms the trees one by one,
She paints their leaves with new hues.
There’s a different kind of fun,
Now that Autumn has begun
.
There’s a magic in the air,
In the smells and all the colors.
Cool breeze plays with my hair,
While her beauty I just stare!
Autumn has come back at my door,
What a sight! It’s the season I adore
.
Amber Glow
By : Wesley Mincin
Red and yellow painted leaves
hang idly within the trees
They break and sail along the breeze
As fires of Autumn’s time
They dance and surf upon the ground
Overlap each other with ruffling sound
A setting I am glad I found
As fires of Autumn’s time
Like fires of the Autumn season
they leap and dance without a reason
A factor of Autumns many seasons
As fires of Autumn’s time’
The grey clouds break, the sun appears
The dancing leaves appear to sere
These flames its kept for many years
As fires of Autumn’s time
My Land
Fujifilm X100
The Landscape of county Kilkenny, Ireland
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
My Land
By Thomas Davis
She is a rich and rare land;
Oh! she’s a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land–
This native land of mine.
No men than her’s are braver–
Her women’s hearts ne’er waver;
I’d freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.
She’s not a dull or cold land;
No! she’s a warm and bold land;
Oh! she’s a true and old land–
This native land of mine.
Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border–
No friend within it pine!
Oh! she’s a fresh and fair land;
Oh! she’s a true and rare land;
Yes! she’s a rare and fair land–
This native land of mine.
Who Has Seen the Wind ?
Who Has Seen the Wind
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Who Has Seen the Wind?
By Christina Rossetti
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
Source: The Golden Book of Poetry (1947)
The crows will only grow louder, poem: Laura Breidenthal
A crow flying in-front of Slievenamon, County Tipperary
Landscape and nature photography : Nigel Borrington
The crows will only grow louder
By : Laura Breidenthal
There is no celestial place for you to guide my thoughts
Can you not see that I am free from you?
I am a crow perched high in the treetops
You will hear my crowing and you may hate it
But, you cannot take away my voice!
Yet still, as fire oppresses forests of life,
You can abuse my freedom to find your glory
You may discard these words for your love of gods,
And in so doing you may simply ignore
All the cries that I so passionately utter
But my infectious species will guide your mind straight back
To that once so lonely treetop where you merely glanced
And there will be multitudinous, oppressing thoughts
That shall enslave you and bind you unwillingly
The crows will only grow louder when you turn away—
When you pretend to ignore with your remaining, strangling pride
For my voice is a production sent from above
Dispatched to judge you pitilessly for your swelling lies!
And the choirs of ferocious beaks shall open forever
Harmony and dissonance as one
Strolling down memory lane, a poem by : Taran Burke
Canon G1x
Newtown lane, County Kilkenny
Kilkenny landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Strolling down memory lane
By : taran burke
Strolling down memory lane
Where the colors begin to fade.
Strolling down memory lane
Is where I want you to come along.
Strolling down memory lane
is a test of time and mind.
Strolling down memory lane
I won’t be afraid.
Strolling down memory lane
Is lacking in color.
Strolling down memory lane
Is travelling in time.
Strolling down memory lane
Not a storm in sight
Strolling down memory lane
is joy without fright.
A memory that I have created in my mind,
Stands the test of time.
Where the Rivers Flow
Sigma SD15, 15-30mm lens, ISO 50
River Barrow, County Kilkenny
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Where the Rivers Flow
By : Monique Sapla
Have you ever wondered,
Where do the rivers flow
Do they flow forever,
Where does the water go.
Do rivers somewhere finish,
Where does a river start
Do all lead to the ocean,
Or do they break apart.
Someday I’d like to follow,
A river to its end
I’d run to the horizon,
Through fields and around bends.
Have you ever wondered,
Where do the rivers flow
Do they go on forever
Someday I’d like to know
Monday mornings, mist in the woods
Monday morning mist in the woods
Kilkenny landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Monday Mornings
Finally breaks the morning light,
ending a long, restful night.
From this place, the sun through the trees,
appears to reveal some misty scene.
Colorless branches contorting the rays of the sun,
light breaking through trees from some place of desolation.
Slowly to the world vision returns,
it becomes apparent that nothing has changed.
So an excuse not to begin the week,
fades into the glimmer of the soft sun rays.
Our tired bodies, hardly able to stir,
begin our long journey to the weeks return.
Monday mornings. A poem: When the fishing boats go out.
Fishing boat setting to sea, Youghal, county Cork
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Monday Morning – setting to sea
Monday morning and it is that time of the week when I am always looking somehow to get my mind and body moving.
Some little time back I stayed for a week down near Youghal, county Cork. Each Morning I would watch the boats heading out to sea, very early each day they would slowly disappear over the horizon.
Just to help me start my own day and the week ahead I found this Poem by Lucy Montgomery.
When the Fishing Boats Go Out
Lucy Montgomery
When the lucent skies of morning flush with dawning rose once more,
And waves of golden glory break adown the sunrise shore,
And o’er the arch of heaven pied films of vapor float.
There’s joyance and there’s freedom when the fishing boats go out.
The wind is blowing freshly up from far, uncharted caves,
And sending sparkling kisses o’er the brows of virgin waves,
While routed dawn-mists shiveroh, far and fast they flee,
Pierced by the shafts of sunrise athwart the merry sea!
Behind us, fair, light-smitten hills in dappled splendor lie,
Before us the wide ocean runs to meet the limpid sky
Our hearts are full of poignant life, and care has fled afar
As sweeps the white-winged fishing fleet across the harbor bar.
The sea is calling to us in a blithesome voice and free,
There’s keenest rapture on its breast and boundless liberty!
Each man is master of his craft, its gleaming sails out-blown,
And far behind him on the shore a home he calls his own.
Salt is the breath of ocean slopes and fresher blows the breeze,
And swifter still each bounding keel cuts through the combing seas,
Athwart our masts the shadows of the dipping sea-gulls float,
And all the water-world’s alive when the fishing boats go out.
On Contemplating a Sheep’s Skull ~ Poem by: John Kinsella
All images taken in the Nier valley, county waterford
Fujifilm X100
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
On Contemplating a Sheep’s Skull
Poem by John Kinsella
A sheep’s Skull aged so much in rain and heat,
broken jawbone and chipped teeth half-
gnaw soil; zippered fuse-mark tracks
back to front, runs through to base
of neck, widening faultline under
stress: final crack close at hand.
Skull I can’t bring myself to move.
White-out red soil unearthed
from hillside fox den and cat haven,
now hideaway for short-beaked echidna
toppling rocks and stones, disrupting
artfulness a spirit might impose,
frisson at seeing counterpoint.
Skull I can’t bring myself to move.
Sometimes avoid the spot to avoid
looking half-hearted into its sole
remaining eye socket; mentally to join
bones strewn downhill, come apart
or torn from mountings years before
arriving with good intentions.
Skull I can’t bring myself to move.
Not something you can ‘clean up’,
shape of skull is not a measure of all
it contained: weight of light and dark,
scales of sound, vast and varied taste
of all grass eaten from these hills;
slow and steady gnawing at soil.
Skull I can’t bring myself to move.
Neither herbivore nor carnivore,
earth and sky-eater, fire in its shout
or whisper, racing through to leave a bed
of ash on which the mind might rest,
drinking sun and light and smoke,
choked up with experience.
Skull I can’t bring myself to move.
Drawn to examine
despite aversion, consider
our head on its shoulders,
drawn expression
greeting loved ones
with arms outstretched.
John Kinsella is Founding editor of the journal Salt in Australia; he serves as international editor at the Kenyon Review. His most recent volume of poetry is Divine Comedy: Journeys through a Regional Geography (W. W. Norton) with a new volume, Disturbed Ground: Jam Tree Gully/Walden, due out with W.W. Norton in November 2011.
Sunday evening in the mountains
Mountain views of Country Kerry
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
In My Dreams I was traveling, Probably in my car, through the hills of Kerry, little valleys where everyday life is lived, A voice reproached me for squandering my time on trifles , instead of writing about the essence of life, which is such a so-ness.
Probably all my voyages in dreams have a model in one, very real, by car from cork to Kerry, A boggy road with ruts, always either up or down, stubble fields on the hills in the rain, here and there a spruce grove, then alders by streams,huts,well-sweeps.
Taken from : Czeslaw Milosz
Silent Sunday (Sing – A poem).
Sunset over Windgap, County kilkenny
Landscape photography by Nigel Borrington
Sunday and today I just wanted to be silent to be still and think of nothing, so often we hear the sound of voices around us, people who just cannot stop for fear of a gap.
The most I wanted to hear was a song, the song that nature makes on the hillsides.
So a poem for a Sunday evening :
Sing
Today seemed like a day I should be silent.
The silence seemed so absolute, every small sound
reverberating intensely.
My annoying voice would shatter such a perfect peace.
Perhaps a song.
If a song were to break out over this hillside,
causing the grass to move, that might be acceptable.
The silence their audience,
a brilliant song.
I wish it so, but I know my voice has not that song,
and in thinking so I find I’ve lost it altogether.
So I sit back, a supportive member of the audience.
So step up; we’re listening.
We silenced wait for your beautiful lucid song.
Someone to save us from the silence we trapped ourselves in,
afraid to break perfection.
Someone to tell us that imperfection is something that’s okay.
Your song can rescue us.
Your voice can come and let us sing again.
Let your music ring across this silence.
We’ll rise up, a chorus of flaws, and be beautiful.
Set us free.
Sing.
Sophiea · Oct 28, 2011
Sunday evenings – without angels, a poem by – Mario Rossi
Sigma sd15, 15-30mm lens, iso 50
A view of slievenamon, from the red gate
Landscape images from : Nigel Borrington
Sunday evening and the last light of the weekend is fading once more, I love this time of the week. Everything that happened last week is in the past and we have a new start for our week ahead.
So then a Poem :
Evening Without Angels
—Mario Rossi
the great interests of man: air and light,
the joy of having a body, the voluptuousness
of looking.
Why seraphim are arranged
Above the trees?
Air is air,
Its vacancy glitters round us everywhere.
Its sounds are not angelic syllables
But our unfashioned spirits realized
More sharply in more furious selves.
And light
That fosters seraphim and is to them
Coiffeur of haloes, fecund jeweller—
Was the sun concoct for angels or for men?
Sad men made angels of the sun, and of
The moon they made their own attendant ghosts,
Which led them back to angels, after death.
Let this be clear that we are men of sun
And men of day and never of pointed night,
Men that repeat antiquest sounds of air
In an accord of repetitions. Yet,
If we repeat, it is because the wind
Encircling us, speaks always with our speech.
Light, too, encrusts us making visible
The motions of the mind and giving form
To moodiest nothings, as, desire for day
Accomplished in the immensely flashing East,
Desire for rest, in that descending sea
Of dark, which in its very darkening
Is rest and silence spreading into sleep.
…Evening, when the measure skips a beat
And then another, one by one, and all
To a seething minor swiftly modulate.
Bare night is best. Bare earth is best. Bare, bare,
Except for our own houses, huddled low
Beneath the arches and their spangled air,
Beneath the rhapsodies of fire and fire,
Where the voice that is in us makes a true response,
Where the voice that is great within us rises up,
As we stand gazing at the rounded moon.
Sigma sd15, 15-30mm lens, iso 50
A view of slievenamon, from the red gate
Landscape images from : Nigel Borrington
Sigma sd15, 15-30mm lens, iso 50
The red gate with a view of Slievenamon
Landscape images from : Nigel Borrington
Nigel Borrington 
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