blurred edge of land and sky.
Roads twisting, turning, falling, rising,
each curve a poem.
Where are you leading me, I asked?
Just keep walking came the reply.
Wavelets bright as stars in a night sky
flashed around a large, grey rock,
grounded in shallow water.
What holds you so still I asked?
Contemplation, came the reply.
The bright river flowed swift and sure,
singing to low-lying fields swamped
in quiet pools, to stones on the river-bed and
under the hump-back bridge in answer to
the distant call of the wild Atlantic Ocean,
its song familiar somewhere in my heart.
A scattering of cottages dotted hillsides,
wandering sheep grazed, their wool
snatched on brambles and littered on
muddy ground like dirty snow.
Curiosity brought them running to the gate,
allowing my brief human touch before retreating,
like goats, scrambling over hillocks and in-between
thorny bushes to watch from a safe distance.
Where do you belong, they asked?
The answer came in a light-filled puddle ,
with my reflection, held, in water, rocks and stones,
mountains, fields, sheep and roads that bind and lead.
Through a weave of variegated ivy leaves,
upon which light and shade played games
with my imagination, the truncated tree presented
a face of hollow cheeks and hollow eyes that
questioned my beliefs.
During long winter months, while rain and gales
rampaged, scattering and flinging in a whirl of
winter chaos, the trunk held fast to its roots,
small creatures sought refuge in the dense
and healthy growth but what were my truths.
Thoughts of Celtic Gods and Goddesses occupied my mind, until spring came shyly
through a cloud of leafy tendrils that framed her face and a crown of green was placed,
for a mythical Goddess Queen, Druantia, protector of trees, grounding my beliefs and responsibility.
In Johnstown Castle Gardens, swans glide serenely on a lake of green algae,
their nest hidden by the burst of growth along the swampy waterside.
Giant Gunnera and black stemmed Chinese Bamboo plunge their roots into the sodden bank.
Blush of Pink and purple Rhododendrons, Camellia and the perfumed flowers of Mock Orange Blossom. Pine trees soaring above a canopy of glossy green Laurel and the surprise of Flag Iris in glory of sunshine yellow while ferns, buttercups and all kinds of wild flowers fill the gaps below.
Shady earthen paths, small birds whistling from hidden places, scents of woodland and a damp bench for pause and reflection.
At the entrance to the courtyard and cafeteria, a pheasant atop his lofty perch commands attention, his screeches echo,
another struts purposefully in the courtyard, tail feathers fanned, he struts his stuff.
In an unruly, extravagant wild,
weathered golden rocks crown a precious land.
Bluebells burst through scrub, moss and brambles.
Nests are built and slept in,
oft times disturbed by approaching footsteps.
The occupants rise up in startled flight,
Roots stir, a greening bud opens and
you are held in awe of a tiny flower,
unaware of its presence
until it comes upon its beauty
with the connection felt.
Photo taken on Great Saltee Island, Wexford – by Teri Flynn (MaskedNative)
It was good to stop and take a halfway moment, allowing my mind to wander into forgotten dreams, surrounding myself with thoughts of softness, kindness, strength, and the pleasure of just being here. The unfolding was encouraging,
Halfway down the crumbling wooden steps, the sound of waves rolling onto sand.
Halfway through January, the morning has warmed to three degrees.
Halfway between here and there, thoughts of scrambling autumn blackberries, and
yellow wild flowers nestling amongst the scrub.
Raindrops in a line on the tips of thin grass.
My halfway thoughts linger on all the small jewels.