Masked Native

Donegal

January 7, 2020

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

September 12, 2019

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

June 1, 2019

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

May 1, 2019

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

January 23, 2019

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.

Breathe

January 19, 2019

Dunmore Woods

September 2, 2018

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.