Outside it may be winter but if you are back here, reading this, you are helping to create an inner glow of warmth! From the wonderful book lovers who have been buying my book, to bloggers and on line friends who have shared, every positive word of encouragement has really been special. Thank . . .
It's early and deadly still. The best part of the day. I can see my neighbour on the hill checking her sheep. It's the same lane, the same field but in the morning frost, this dawn creates another world. Later, the wind will whip up a little and the sun will fill up these shadows with light. For now the long dark tree . . .
Myself and the neighbours sky watch and throw our wishes for light into every short encounter. From "there's a stretch in the evenings" to "as long as it's bright" we are guilty of the most repetitive weather conversations that can be had. From the top of the hill you can see the sea. In ten minutes on a dark . . .
I've been laid up with a resistant bacterial infection which has made me housebound beyond even what I can bear. So photographing the view from the window is limited by the lens capacity and the increasing greyness of winter..... I've amused myself by seeing how far I can reach . . .
It's usually early morning. A time when I am half asleep. A time when I am mulling over so many "important things". Maybe during breakfast, this is the moment when they decide to take flight. First there is the unmistakable sound, the loud beating of wings. The start is a little clumsy as they raise their heavy bodies into . . .
The Rosebay Willowherb are at the end of this cycle. At their height they are pinker and deeper than a girly pink. In early autumn they go to seed in a fluffy fashion and by December they are gnarled fists of skeletal remains clinging to their stalks. In clumps along the ditches, they mark time with me, and . . .
Are we sharing similar thoughts as we watch the cattle being fed? Fodder. Winter. Action. The structure of everything is revealed by winter, so I am aware of this Robin following me. It's a territorial thing with Robins, they own the place. Making my way along the lane, he continually swoops on ahead always landing in . . .
We are wandering close to the edge of our future. While the International Monetary Fund pack their bags we in Ireland are left with much unfinished business. My usually upbeat tribe of creatives are struggling to stay grounded. Looking for direction, going up blind alleys, flying kites. There are flashes of . . .
As November takes hold, maybe winter begins? The community on the hill and here on the lane are winding down, burrowing in behind closed doors. Close to the window there are white roses budding and flowering, in their own rhythm. Sure they don't seem to know if it's day or night! And in the workshop there are sounds of tapping and . . .
There's a bit of a warrior queen in me that wants to protect my creative space. If I could make a moat of distance between me and the world I would do it. Barricading myself into a turret room and staying there for as long as it took or until I was thoroughly weary of it. I also know that no sooner had I closed the door, than I would weep for . . .