A slow parting

It was a slow parting, the end of many years of decline. Autumn came to echo this. Slowly, deliberately, and without an exit strategy. A one way ticket. And while he waited for the end, I photographed every fading leaf and naked branch.

Now September is dipping into a paintbox of change, yet again.

Another darkening autumn. Greens breaking into gold. Seed heads soft and ripening. Skies streaked with darker crimsons. Longer shadows stretching into the hedgerows. Spotlights of sun highlighting a leaf here or a fading flower there.

The world is turning away from the sun. And now all we have of him is this day and the beauty we can find in it........the wisdom he passed on.

More from the Autumn Gallery here

Their creations

This morning there is a smorgasbord of administration awaiting me at my desk.

Sipping my last drops of coffee, one foot in the world of strategy and one in a forest of spider's webs, the sparkly raindrops win the toss and the wellies are on.

Galaxies of web threads and universes of morning dewdrops blanket everything. It's only on these moist misty mornings that they are visible. Billions of tiny insects, spiders, crawlies, spreading out from the gorse on the hill to the chair outside the kitchen door. Lattices and spirals of precious mesh.

This time of the year the tree spiders and cellar spiders are each looking for a mate. Inside the house they run out from their usual dark cover, disoriented but determined. Do they have to crawl over everything? Even over me?

Outside I feel more tolerant. Sometimes one scuttles into view, magnified by the lens and I jump a little. Less and less as it happens. They are starting to win me over.

Their clever work, their harmony with the environment, their secret presence. Do they have consciousness of the beauty they create? That's my question as I reluctantly head back to that cluttered desk.....

Sweet nothings

He gathers windfalls and leaves them on the white washed gate post. I used to think it was an invitation to help yourself. Now I know it's a stash he's keeps for the horses.

As the evening sun sparkles on the lake, he takes a few in his pocket and wanders down towards the waterside field. I was there tonight and heard him talk horse.

"There there girl, that's a good girl, ..........."

She pricks up her ears and walks towards him.......

"Do you want an apple? Sure you do, you do, you'd love an apple. What have I got? Have got one for you, have I have......."

She nuzzles, sniffles at his hand.......

"Who's a good girl, O here's himself now, (laughter......as the other horse approaches) would you want an apple too now sir......you would sir, you would......O you would indeed......."


Sweet nothings, coaxings, words of love.

Her little bed of roses

In her garden it's the sweet perfume that I remember. Her little bed of roses.

She broke her back in a car accident in the 1930's and was bent over and frail. We used to laugh saying she was so wrinkled that her wrinkles had wrinkles. She was strict and made us eat things we didn't like, but always only one or two bites. Because of her I will try anything once......

Because of her I love the fading grandeur of roses, of crumpled faces and the curled up edges of smiling eyes. In a world paranoid about aging I still love the beauty of autumn leaves, vulnerable yet eye catching as any bud in spring.

The gravelly voice, would repeat her favourite rhyme, "her foot slipped, down she fell and broke her alikaboozalam" I never tired of hearing it or of gazing into that puckered up old face full of joy.




PS Updated portfolio based on the seasons here

It's one of those nights

It's one of those nights, summer turning to autumn, when the sun sends sideways glances at the earth and turns the day's heat into shades of pink and gold. We are walking on the cliffs at Garrarus and at each further climb towards the top field we stop and watch it disappear to the west.

The small details catch my eye but it is the larger sweep of things that I am more concerned about for once. Bits of me are blending into each other. Parts that have been kept hidden are bubbling to the surface. Work merges with life. Art merges with hope. While the light is fading on Ireland a ferocious determination is rising in me.

Rose tinted spectacles and all, I write three orders in my diary for September, Engage, Reach out, Enthuse.  The words come from somewhere, a powerful energy.

O I don't have all that lingo of dreaming and journeying, concepts in some foreign language, or maybe in code. I only have a simple phrase which says, life is short.

Mesmerised by butterflies

At least once a year there has to be a Butterfly Blitz on Foxglove Lane and today's the day!!  That's it plain and simple........