Archives for posts with tag: Ireland

Family picnic –

Swifts circling, feed on the wing ~

A fine stand of pines.

Pittosporum scent –

Strong, mornings and evenings ~

Bracketing the day.

Magnolia blooms –

Battered by the growing wind ~

White plates on the lawn.

Peter the Bluetit –

Freddy the Robin redbreast ~

I’m in their world now.

Picking blackberries –

Against the fading grey light ~

Can’t tell black from red.

A Monday haircut –

Shut in, the last customer ~

Free beer a nice touch.

Magnolia blooms –

My Mother’s garden renews ~

‘Sure that soil is spent’

Her mother famously said –

She was gloriously wrong.

Some hands know the soil.
They know what to do with it.
They’re not fine hands, clean hands, they’re rough and thick fingered and calloused but they bring life out of the black and keep a kind of order on the land.
They give firm handshakes.
And hold grandchildren carefully like they hold a china tea cup or a fragile flower.

(For Bob, who knew the land and its people well, RIP).

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Take the tram to town –
A pierced girl stands by the door ~
She’s reading Homer. 

‘Planes land and take off –
With millions of stories ~
Bringing people home. 

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