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Castles In The Sky

When I was a child, I climbed walls, just to see what was on the other side, it didn’t matter how high, your friends always climbed with you. We could throw a ball against a wall, or mark it with chalk as the goal posts for a game. Sometimes we just sat on the wall and told each other jokes and stories about the mystery of secrets in the wind.

A wall was just a wall made of bricks. Brick coloured bricks. Brick shaped bricks. Bricks that smelled like bricks. Real bricks.

When I was grown, I built lots of walls. They were like jig-saw pieces with holes where the bits were missing. I made square pegs to fit into round holes in the wall but when I realised that none of them were real, that they only existed behind the walls of my mind and no matter how high I tried to climb, they were only made of paper.

So I built a smaller wall, to sit on while I dreamt about castles in the sky and secrets in the wind.

Prayer

A Prayer In The Gazebo

A prayer for the well-being and peace of my Mother, and her Mother, and her Mother, and her Mother, and all the Mothers we are descended from.

A prayer for my Daughter, and your daughter, and her daughter, and their daughters, for their peace and well-being, for the spirit and soul of the Feminine, without which we are lost.

A prayer for my Sons, and your sons, and their sons, and their sons, for their peace and well-being, for the spirit and soul of the Masculine, without which they are lost.

A prayer for our world, for everything in it, for the peace and well-being of all its peoples and all its animals,  birds, plants, trees,  rocks, mountains, rivers and seas and all the fish therein.

May we live in peace, love and harmony with gratitude to the Creator of our universe, and all its suns and moons, stars and planets

and for all those gone before us, all those with us and all those yet to come, may all be blessed in this prayer.

(‘Prayer’ by Teri Flynn)

Pine Wood

 

Leaving the path

I walk into the woods.

Sit on a fallen branch 

within a circle of

pine trees, twigs, sticks, 

rotting wood, 

pine needles and 

fallen leaves,

layer upon layer,

composted.

A decay that 

nourishes these 

silent giants 

whose spongy 

trunks soar to

reach the light

high above.

There is shelter

from the wind,

but beneath 

the evergreen canopy,

the silence is total,

like death, yet 

it calls me

to listen,

to strive

for the

light.

 

Donegal

Folding mist,

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.

Druantia

 

 

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.

Perfumed Trails

 

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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.

Photo taken at the middle lake in Johnstown Castle Gardens, Wexford, by Teri Flynn May 2019

A Delirium Of Wildness

 

 

 

 

A Delirium Of Wildness

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)

Halfway

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

 

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.