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.

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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
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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)

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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.

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Breathe

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Breathe

White, foamy sea spilling into rock pools.

Seaweed fingers rise and fall.

Sunlight  flickers like fireflies on the sultry sway.

The dark cave beckons but all there is to do is simply

breathe, breathe, breathe.

Life is difficult at times. Worries are carried like a heavy burden on our backs, but how quickly they can dissolve.

A song overheard connects us to a happy memory.

An understanding smile from a friend, no words needed.

The absolute certainty of day and night and the belief that tomorrow will be different.

The image above was one of those moments, holding me in the stillness of a gentle day. 

Along with the seagull observing his world of light on water, we were spellbound for a while.

 

Photo – taken in Dunmore East by Teri Flynn

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Dunmore Woods

 

 

13th March 2018

Trees in sunlight

Under a three forked tree, wind blows through the noisy caw of crows.

They seem to own the woods here.

Trees of great height and fallen, filtered sunlight, daffodils and bark littered ground.

 

I want to walk through the woods but I’m on my own and not sure whether to take the risk. What if……..

Sitting on a bench just inside the turnstile gate allows for pause and reflection. Behind me, emerging daffodils grow in circles around palm trees. Beyond the low brick wall overlooking the lower village, there is a clear view of the beach and surrounding cliffs. I watch a small child at the waters edge, she dares the tide to stop at her feet, watching intently as it almost does. Gulls fly swiftly past. A grey container ship moves slowly out to open sea. In between gathering grey clouds, the sun warms my winter-pale face.

Walkers with children enter through the turnstile. There is safety in numbers and so I allow them five minutes or so to go ahead before following at a reasonable distance. Tall trees on either side of the path are aware of my touch on their rough bark. They watch and listen as I acknowledge their presence in my heart. Amongst the decay of fallen trees, hundreds of daffodils, buds not yet evident, line the edges of the path. Clumps of tiny white bell shaped flowers stand proud above the bracken. The music of the woods is tuning up for spring, new life sprung from the old.

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Snow Song

Trinity Island house & snow

A snowflake wends its way to earth,
dissolving on your hand.

Two or three and more leave
snow pearls in your hair.

You lift your face to the sky,
receive snow kisses on your skin,

hold your breath
as the magic gathers

and in the drifting white
the world is transfigured.

In an awesome quiet
you listen to the morning,

and birdsong,
that echoes deep into your heart.

For Heather Dawn Kemp

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Chopin’s Seagull Ballet

 

Stormy Morning for Seagul

 

Chopin’s Seagull ballet

to

Air On A ‘G’ String.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo ©Teri Flynn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sound Of Silence

Sound of Silence

Water prickling,
seeping through pebbles,
over and under to the far-out sea.
Come back, come back, be filled.

One lonely gull,
no more than that to prove I exist,
here, now.

Mounds of brown sea-weed,
great lumps of slime and slither on denser rock.
The scent of ozone everywhere
neither sweet nor pungent, in my lungs, my mind.

Xylophone tinkles on pebbles,
Power of Cello in wise old rocks.
Trumpet call from standing trees
that hold the cliffs a few days more.

A muffled silence in sagging,
rain filled clouds,
the long, lonely, notes roaring in my ears.

 

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As If It Belongs To him

Morning sojourn,

a single gull on the water,

touching home.
Continue reading

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