Today is the beginning of Spring in Ireland, it is marked by Brigid's day. It was also called, in more ancient times, and still is, Imbolc. I walked to the woods this morning, to the sounds of Winter's small birds singing themselves into Spring. I imagined them from their bare branch views, pushing there downy chests out in full spirit of this dawning sun. What little survivors they are. Whilst I ooohed and awwwwed at the frosty trees sparkle and the brilliant blue skies of the cold snap, they just about held on with all their tiny might.
The sun even felt warm, it was a brilliant golden disk as I wandered to the opening. The first part I call the Cathedral, great tall oaks on either side that stand majestic and divine like. The stream called me in and with water brimming up to the edge of my wellies, I wandered up it. Brown river water, gushing with last nights rain, but singing too. The Little lamb's tails are hanging now from their branches of the hazel. They are my indicator. Since I was wee I have waited for them each year. Yes, Spring is here.
Below is a poem I heard not long ago, I think it was on the radio about Christmas time. Its by Brendan Kennelly, a wonderful irish poet.
It fits in with my ever seemingly deepening theme of all things impermanent ( unintentional as it is, it seems all I can write about), it also is about right for a new start.
Love to you all dear readers. xx E
Begin Again
Begin again to the summoning birds
to the sight of light at the window,
begin to the roar of morning traffic
all along Pembroke Road.
The sun even felt warm, it was a brilliant golden disk as I wandered to the opening. The first part I call the Cathedral, great tall oaks on either side that stand majestic and divine like. The stream called me in and with water brimming up to the edge of my wellies, I wandered up it. Brown river water, gushing with last nights rain, but singing too. The Little lamb's tails are hanging now from their branches of the hazel. They are my indicator. Since I was wee I have waited for them each year. Yes, Spring is here.
Below is a poem I heard not long ago, I think it was on the radio about Christmas time. Its by Brendan Kennelly, a wonderful irish poet.
It fits in with my ever seemingly deepening theme of all things impermanent ( unintentional as it is, it seems all I can write about), it also is about right for a new start.
Love to you all dear readers. xx E
Begin Again
Begin again to the summoning birds
to the sight of light at the window,
begin to the roar of morning traffic
all along Pembroke Road.
Every beginning is a promise
born in light and dying in dark determination
and exaltation of springtime
flowering the way to work.
Begin to the pageant of queuing girls
the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal
bridges linking the past and the future
old friends passing through with us still.
born in light and dying in dark determination
and exaltation of springtime
flowering the way to work.
Begin to the pageant of queuing girls
the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal
bridges linking the past and the future
old friends passing through with us still.
Begin to the loneliness that cannot end
since it perhaps is what makes us begin,
begin to wonder at unknown faces
at crying birds in the sudden rain
at branches stark in the willing sunlight
at seagulls foraging for bread
at couples sharing a sunny secret
alone together while making good.
since it perhaps is what makes us begin,
begin to wonder at unknown faces
at crying birds in the sudden rain
at branches stark in the willing sunlight
at seagulls foraging for bread
at couples sharing a sunny secret
alone together while making good.
Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
that always seems about to give in
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin.
that always seems about to give in
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin.
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