A Scarecrow Poem.
A Scarecrow Named Hal
The Scarecrow
Walter de la Mare
All winter through I bow my head
beneath the driving rain;
the North Wind powders me with snow
and blows me black again;
at midnight ‘neath a maze of stars
I flame with glittering rime,
and stand above the stubble, stiff
as mail at morning-prime.
But when that child called Spring, and all
his host of children come,
scattering their buds and dew upon
these acres of my home,
some rapture in my rags awakes;
I lift void eyes and scan
the sky for crows, those ravening foes,
of my strange master, Man.
I watch him striding lank behind
his clashing team, and know
soon will the wheat swish body high
where once lay a sterile snow;
soon I shall gaze across a sea
of sun-begotten grain,
which my unflinching watch hath sealed
for harvest once again.
The Rainy day : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A rainy day
Achill Island , County Mayo
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
This Morning here in Ireland is a very wet one with some 20mm of rain is expected here in county Kilkenny before midday.
So what better way to free yourself on this Autumn day than with a rainy day poem :
The Rainy Day
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
.
Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
October’s Party By : George Cooper
October, In Gold she looks their best;
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
October’s Party
By: George Cooper
October gave a party;
The leaves by hundreds came—
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.
The Chestnuts came in yellow,
The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses Maple
In scarlet looked their best;
All balanced to their partners,
And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
New fallen from the sky.
Then, in the rustic hollow,
At hide-and-seek they played,
The party closed at sundown,
And everybody stayed.
Professor Wind played louder;
They flew along the ground;
And then the party ended
In jolly “hands around.”
Images of Skellig Michael and ( Life The Way It Should Be, A Poem by : Taylor Jordao )
Skellig Michael and the Skellig islands
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Life The Way It Should Be
by : Taylor Jordao
Tell me what do you see
Purple, green, and gold,
Mountain peaks that touch the sky
Little black birds flying by
Sun setting in the west
Flowers in the east,
Calm, relaxing breeze
And forests filled with trees
Tell me what do you see
The sky starts to fade as night approaches
Animals will soon come out
The spring is ending without a doubt
Fall is coming near
Cold weather’s on its way,
Flowers start to die
Birds go south, bye bye.
Tell me what do you see
Happiness, love, and beauty,
Everyone is free
Life the way it should be.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, By : Wallace Stevens
Blackbird in the light of the Moon
Nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
By Wallace Stevens
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
The Glassblower , Images from Waterford crystal and a Poem By : Jeff Crandall
Waterford Crystal Glass blower
Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Glassblower
By : Jeff Crandall
This vessel has curves
pleasing to the eye, a soft lip,
a flat foot to rest on. I want to cup my palms
over the glowing color of its cooling,
but later. . . .
Now my eye is caught in the heat
of its final fire polish.
What dripped from the pipe
—radiant, thick as semen—
achieves fulfillment in the motions
of my own turning.
The amorphous, the malleable
awakens. There is a taste to the air here.
Steel. Iron in your mouth.
What formed at the glory hole
delicate as an adolescent
reflection in a mirror
cools in the first few minutes from that heat,
cools to the rigid shatter state.
If I hold this glass
suspended in the lit gas heat
I can watch it slump. I can let the thin walls
collapse and tear
back to a puddle of clear:
I wipe saliva from my chin.
I anneal myself with hugs.
I contain the polarized stresses.
I return to the cold of the holding shelf.
Monday Poetry , “Ulysses” By : Alfred Tennyson
A distant view of Slievenamon, County Tipperary, Ireland.
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Sometimes walking around the counties of Kilkenny and Tipperary you get an overwhelming sense of history , old church yards with old graves, Monuments left by ancient peoples and their tribes.
Places left as a reminder of Leaders and Kings and people long past.
Places and people that could be contained in “Ulysses” a poem by Alfred Tennyson.
Ulysses
By : Alfred Tennyson
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an agèd wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought
with me—
.
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Capturing Autumn in County Kilkenny (Images and a Poem by : Andrea Rieck)
Autumn Landscape,
County Kilkenny,
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
It the end of the Second week of October 2014 and Autumn is taking a hold of the county Kilkenny Landscape, We had bad weather and high winds at the start of last week so some of the trees lost a good amount of their leaves. Many however still remain and the golden browns are coming through very well.
I came across this poem by Andrea Rieck last night and wanted to share it along with some of my Autumn images.
It’s autumn again
By : Andrea Rieck
Leaves whisper the sound of our past
In loss they pay a descent
To the ground we fall
It’s autumn again
Our song is sung by the wind
Echoes of loss and grief
Through chilled air we wade
It’s autumn again
The waters grow as cold as our hearts
We are alike – crusted in ice
In ourselves we freeze
It’s autumn again
Flowers vanish from our sadness
Our beauty grows weak
Covered in frost we wither
It’s autumn again
The rain falls like our tears
Can’t dry our eyes
From the sky we descend
It’s autumn again
The sun shines then fails like us
Our sight becomes a wintry gray
Lost in darkness we will fade
It’s autumn again
Images of the sheep shearing shed and a Poem by Lorna Madson
The Sheep Shearing Shed,
Country Kerry,
Irish Photography : Nigel Borrington
Shearing
– by Lorna Madson
I still recall shearing at Dad’s place,
All those early starts,
Learning to skirt the fleeces,
Pulling off the daggy parts.
I remember Dad sewing up sheep that were cut,
With a needle and big piece of cotton,
Sometimes we helped him yard up the sheep,
Or bring in some the dog had forgotten.
There’s a definite art to throwing a fleece,
One that i’m still yet to master,
The only time I ever tried,
Was a complete and utter disaster!
It was always a guess as to when we would shear,
Dad never knew quite when they’d come,
But you always knew by their thirsty look,
When they were about to do the last run.
Mum prepared meals and worked in the shed,
While us kids got up to mischief,
One time we shore so late in October,
Mum asked if they’d be there for Christmas!
Every year without a doubt,
The straw broom went down to the shed,
Either Dad forgot to buy one,
Or it was easier to take Mum’s instead.
On school days we’d race from the bus to the shed,
There was no time for homework or chores,
Getting tossed in a wool press, riding sheep in the pen,
Our hands full of prickles and sore.
When we cut-out half the district would come,
The wool table would be covered in grub,
Plenty to drink and the odd song or two,
It was better than any session at the pub!
This is a glimpse of what shearing was like,
Or at least it’s the bits I remember,
The shearing shed’s where all the action was at,
Usually somewhere around August-September.
But I doubt if Dad’s memories of shearing,
Are as fond to him as mine are to me,
For I didn’t have to worry ’bout microns,
Wool packs and presses you see!
The Standing Stones, Poem by : John Bliven Morin
Standing stone at Glengarriff Nature Reserve.
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Standing Stones
By : John Bliven Morin
Who will go where the standing stones stand,
when the fog rolls in and covers the land,
when the moon is hidden in a cloudy sky,
and the night is as dark as a raven’s eye,
and the wind is as cold as a winter’s chill,
What’s that? You say you’ll dare, you will?
We’re here. If you’ve courage in your mortal bones,
then go and walk through the standing stones;
yes, that way, go, though it’s hard to see
the ancient path in this obscurity;
your torch is useless for a light,
with the fog and the darkness of the night;
you go alone, for you claim the nerve;
I’ll stay right here, for I only serve.
Follow this footpath through the mist,
and keep to the path I must insist.
You step down the path and I’m lost to view,
as the fog and the mist are surrounding you;
several sounds – grinding – from all about,
startle you so that you almost shout,
but all that comes out is a muted croak,
as you wrap yourself in your winter cloak.
You feel things moving through the very ground,
huge things, horrid things sliding around,
which make your skin crawl with growing fear,
and you sense that something is drawing near;
something immense, for the earth so shakes
that a chill runs up your spine and makes
the hair on your head stand up in fright,
as the fog rolls past and hides from sight
that which you fear but cannot see;
perhaps in your nightmares previously.
Wasn’t that standing stone over there?
But now it’s so close, and that other pair
are much nearer too than they were before!
You remember tales of ancient lore,
as you fall back on some lower stones,
and the Old Ones come to crush your bones;
you scream in fear, you scream in pain,
but all your screaming is quite in vain,
for no one can hear you or see the blood
flow down the altar-stone in a flood;
Then all is quiet; you’ve paid the price,
for you were the Druid’s sacrifice.
and I, their servant. go from here
homeward, until another year.
Monday Morning Images and Poetry – You And your free range chickens, by : James Jarrett
You And your free range chickens
Farming Photography : Nigel Borrington
your free range chickens
by : James Jarrett
I often thought about you
And your free range chickens
Being happy on the land
Living life free
Both pecking and scraping
Getting life from the dust
But I didn’t know
That it could never be enough
Tho’ scratch might make some happy
I found out too late
That it wouldn’t do for you
But if I could
Believe me true
I’d bring you chickens
Instead of flowers
To brighten up your room
September Changes: Gallery and a Poem by : Jessica Millsaps
A September Landscape,
County Kilkenny,
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
September is in full flow here in County Kilkenny and Autumn is just around the corner, we have had very dry weather for most of the month yet this could be about to change.
I love the month of September very much and one of my favourite poems about the month is by , Jessica Millsaps .
September Changes
By : Jessica Millsaps
September is like no other
It’s days change color and weather
No other month can say quite the same
For every day, I can feel the change
It’s cool breezes start out warm,
Changing to cold throughout every storm
The leaves change and fall
As the Summer leaves and Autumn kisses us all
.
September maidens feel the change
Like the blue of the sky
Yet the color so deep
Unbelievable beauty
Maidens fall throughout and watch
Each raindropp changing through colors so fast
Yet one streak remains the same
Of that wonderful sapphire rain.
September, unlike any other
Holds you tight, in any weather.
Changes come, no matter where you go
.
North and you’ll get stormy snow
South and feel the heat of summer coming
September does this, no matter what.
Change lives within, Nothing to stop
September is beautiful
And awesome all the same
It’s hope for the future and the change
Comes swiftly as we sweep away
The Summer ends and the Autumn begins
Change is all around
With one maiden leaving
And yet, another comes
Born into the world
Of wonderful September
The sapphire skies live on
Through out this wonderful September
The Sail boat , Images and then a poem by : Lee Shetzline
Sail Boat with red sail
Brownsea Island
Poole Harbour, Poole, Dorset
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Sail boat on the Water
By : Lee Shetzline
Crisp triangle of red sail,
Standing to attention like tin soldiers,
Solitary and glowing
Amidst the thick blue smudges of water
One drop of color
Accidentally spilled onto an endless Sea
Too wonderful to remove
Sunset on the River, a Poem By : Jan Weeratunga
River Barrow, County Kilkenny.
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Sunset on the River
Jan Weeratunga, South Africa
Reds, pinks, oranges and gold’s catch the edge of the clouds and slowly turn the evening sky into a canvas waiting to be painted.
The sun’s last ray’s bounce off the cloud’s lining as it sinks gradually beyond the horizon.
Playfully the rays dance off the shimmering surface of the river,
Another fish jumps from the water,
Sending a concertina of ripples to the riverbank’s shoreline.
Golden waves approach as the setting sun sinks slowly below the horizon,
And small waves lap the side of our boat in an unending regular rhythm.
The repetitive knocking of the fender against the hull takes on the beat of the river,
Tapping the boat and shoreline alike,
It’s constant rhythm disturbed only by the wake of a passing boat or water bird landing on its surface.
Crickets join in with their own percussion as the melody is taken up by the surrounding birdlife,
Each chorus, their evening song as they head along the river bank in search of their nights roost.
Insects buzz over the surface, darting this way and that,
As swallows swoop swiftly, snapping them up in their gaping beaks.
.
Against the Western horizon a kingfisher dives into calmer waters bathed in a glorious warm orange light.
To the East the night’s first star is born,
It shimmers and shivers into life,
Just as the river serenely falls to sleep.
Peace is coming to the river as the ‘time between times’ –
That suspended few minutes of sunset –
Links all things in this world in a glorious golden moment before darkness descends.
Gradually the river slips into sleep
And the moon begins to rise and perform her dance across the waters glassy surface;
Replacing her brothers golden rays with her own silver ones.
Silver shimmering light bathes all beneath it,
Only disturbed by an occasional fish breaking free of its watery surrounds,
To be touched and blessed by the moonlight,
Before diving back down to the river bed.
The moon arches across the night sky,
Playing with the stars,
Until her brothers warming rays tell her it is once again time to allow the miracle of night and day to exchange places.
This old house at Glengarriff, count Cork (Image and Poem By : Sherri Ramirez )
Old house at Glengarriff, count Cork
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
This house is very old
By: by Sherri Ramirez
This house is very old.
Yet, it stands so gracefully.
If the walls could only talk.
I bet they’d have a lot to say.
It holds a lot of memories,
buried deep inside.
It seems to stand with attitude,
as if it carries pride.
It stands upon the foundation,
seeming to claim the land.
Refusing to wither from age
with a little help from my man.
Not one room, is a favorite,
each displays a special touch.
It might be old but, we don’t mind.
We love it very much.
Caha Mountains, Healy Pass, Ring of Beara, West Cork and a Poem By : Edwin Curran
A view of the Caha Mountains
Healy Pass, Ring of Beara, West Cork
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Caha Mountains on the ring of Beara, West cork, are some of the most beautiful mountains in Ireland, while being no means the highest they offer some of the most scenic views you can find. They sit in the middle of the Beara Peninsula and consist of many walking routes and mountain peaks.
Below the peaks sit many ancient lakes that have only a short distance to flow into the sea.
The Old Mountains
by Edwin Curran
The old mountains are tall, silent men
Standing with folded arms, looking over the world,
Lonesome and lofty in their manner.
They have seen empires come and go,
Civilizations rise and fall,
Stars break on their breasts.
They are full of history like great books,
And are merely the stone monuments that the kindly Gods
Built for the human race, to mark its passing tomorrow.
5 Images for the week , Friday – Apples and a Poem By : Patrick Kavanagh
An Apple-ripe September morning.
Irish Landscape Photography,
Kilkenny based photographer : Nigel Borrington
Well September is in full flow and one of the most noticeable features of the month is all the Apple trees locally are ready for picking.
Although September marks the end of another summer it offers some of the best gifts of the year.
On An Apple-Ripe September Morning
Patrick Kavanagh
On an apple-ripe September morning
Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment.
The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,
In Cassidy’s haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the threshing
Since last year. O it was delight
To be paying bills of laughter
And chaffy gossip in kind
With work thrown in to ballast
The fantasy-soaring mind.
As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered
As I looked into the drain
If ever a summer morning should find me
Shovelling up eels again.
And I thought of the wasps’ nest in the bank
And how I got chased one day
Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,
How I covered my face with hay.
The wet leaves of the cocksfoot
Polished my boots as I
Went round by the glistening bog-holes
Lost in unthinking joy.
I’ll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,
The best job at the mill
With plenty of time to talk of our loves
As we wait for the bags to fill.
Maybe Mary might call round…
And then I came to the haggard gate,
And I knew as I entered that I had come
Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.
The Hill, a poem by : Jode Cox
Mount Leinster
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Hill
by : Jode Cox
The road keeps getting longer
the farther that I walk
A head wind seems to push me back
I don’t have the breath to talk
My lungs they burn, my heart it pounds
My throat is getting dry
I see a looming hill ahead
And now I want to cry
To you this hill may seem small
To me it is a mountain
I don’t want to ask you for help
I keep going as fast as I can
I slow with every footstep
Until I have to stop
I find a way to busy my self
To pretend there is nothing wrong
.
To admit this trouble to you
Is to admit it to myself
I don’t want to ask of others
I want to do this myself
I feel this is all my fault
If only I could heal
The shame I feel at every gasp
This journey has become too real
If only I was stronger
This disease I could have fought
It silently crept up to me
The illness I don’t want
Each day I am able to do less
No matter how hard I try
For now I can only do my best
You don’t even understand why
..
I used to run and jump and play
Nothing too hard to do
Now the smallest task I take
I must ask for help from you
You think I don’t see the resentment
The bitterness in your face
You think I chose to be sick
To give up on my life in this place
This hill is not enormous
The one you gave to me
I will make it to the top
I will do it just for me
Evening ghosts along the river, Images and Poem
River Barrow, County Kilkenny
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Evening ghosts along the river
I could tell you how the river looks
sketched in evening light;
I know the smell of mist so fresh over the river,
and night air that parts like tired curtains,
with wet heat that sighs
and slaps the grass when you move on;
I’ve felt what a violin says
to the heart of the river ghosts
over waters edge,
and how an old man’s voice sounds best after smoking,
but a woman’s is best talking.
There are ghosts on these paths,
but they don’t hunger anymore;
hunger is for the living
not satisfied
with morning light.
Brandon Point, County Kerry , “My sea of dreams” a poem by : Bianca P.B
Brandon Point, County Kerry
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
I have just spend a few day away from my blog and during this time visited County Kerry, walking on the Dingle Peninsula.
I took these images from Brandon Point at the very end of the Peninsula, the weather was a little moody with showers and broken cloud, the light on the sea was amazing and I gave myself lots of time to get some images and take in this wonderful coast line.
My sea of dreams
By : Bianca P.B
A vast expanse of glittering dreams and wishes rocking back and forth to form the waves
This sea the only sea I know that changes its color even from a deep majestic purple to a light azure
It changes from the most profound yellow to a bright grassy green
Atop the horizon of this picture perfect sight, the great sky towers above everything
My sky of miracles
The sky that is as enchanted as my wonderful sea
It too along with the sea changes shade
As from white to black to blue
From a sunset red to a dark violet
From a mellow scarlet to a fiery orange
This seascape portrays beauty and imagination
Brandon Point, County Kerry, Gallery
From Sunday Sunset to Monday Sunrise, Images and Poem
A Kilkenny Sunday Sunset
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Monday
So here we are again , the start of another week.
I have been feeling a little in need of some inspiration this Morning, so sat down and put these images and poem together!
From Sunday Sunset to Monday Sunrise
Today is yet another Monday
I wakeup and wonder about yesterday
Then about today, Monday
Sunday to Monday, Yesterday
Just passing the days
Deep orange Sunsets,a rhythm in my heart
Is It all just a painting
A dream on the edge of a disk?
Sunday, Monday, Yesterday
I am sometimes without you
No Light to guide my way
How can I be expected to see the way
While seeing only you
Even while your gone
Sunday, Monday, Yesterday
I am at a silent age
When You’re not with me
Come great Star
Run to me with your light
Guide my way
Sunday, Monday, Yesterday
Ancient Disk of light
Monday
and
I am with you.
Tell it to the lighthouse boy, Poem by Maddie
Valentia Island Lighthouse, County Kerry
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Tell it to the lighthouse boy
By : Maddie
Tell it to the lighthouse boy
the sleepy-eyed resounding boy,
tell it to the lighthouse boy,
who wakes his days away.
Sing it to the lighthouse boy
the bright-mouthed smiling smart-ass boy,
sing it to the lighthouse boy,
solemn, sweet, and still.
Cry it to the lighthouse boy,
the hold you close and call-out boy,
cry it to the lighthouse boy,
who thinks his thoughts alone.
Fling it to the lighthouse boy,
the bending low and catch it boy,
fling it to the lighthouse boy,
to carry on his own.
and oh,
did you ever see eyes so sad?
blue-green as the foaming sea they watch,
stiller than still and deeper than you can imagine,
gazing to your depths and
speaking nothing of them.
so tell it to the lighthouse boy,
the sleepy-eyed resounding boy.
Tell it to the lighthouse boy,
who casts it out to sea.
Afternoon At The Lake, Poem By : Sandi Vander Sluis
Carraigbraghan lake, county Waterford
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Afternoon At The Lake
by Sandi Vander Sluis
I sit by the lake on this wondrous day,
watching the reflection of flowering trees,
rippling past watching appreciative eyes.
Breathing in the smell of glorious summer,
as chattering frogs and birds sing,
their way of celebrating the new season.
The lush green forest surrounds and protects me.
Soft fluffy white clouds in the blue sky above
play peekaboo with the bright yellow sun.
I feel a peaceful feeling overtaking me
and my spirits seem to soar from within
just like the eagle circling, floating above.
The wind softly whispers through the trees,
as I rest on the soft green bed beneath me,
drinking it all in – glad to be one with nature.
Evening light across the fields/Across the fields : Gallery and Poem
Evening Light across the fields, County Kilkenny
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Across the fields
Taken from a poem By : Imp y Celyn
I was just listening to songs from years gone by,
To make me feel the way I did then,
Does this count as masochism?
Gotta run till you drop
Run till you fly into the sunset
Walk for aeons to get to your door
To walk beside you and remember your skin, your hips
Your eyes are so dark, so dark now the sun’s on the horizon
So beautiful; does beauty negate honesty?
Honestly
How do I stand in your presence
Walk the fields with an invisible crown
Just to see what’s going on
Just to make it a little bit more in this life
Sunsets never mean the same
Each sun sets on a different you and me
I want to crown you in violets
So they’ll blaze blood glory in this light
As timeless spirits walk together
Through space, time always plays out the same way
Maybe ours will be a chaste attachment
Right,
And maybe tomorrow,
There you’ll be, leaning back on your throne
And grinning as you spin your fiddle in the air
I can watch the sunrise
But I’d rather lie down with you again
And see sunset paint your face in amber
So I can wash it away with my tears
Because I’ve just been touched by Ancient Gods
Did you know you make me Believe?
Nigel Borrington 
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