Sunday, 23 September 2012
Last night I watched dusk roll down the mountain as we climbed the long road to the Conor Pass. As we drove into Dingle the jade and turquoise ocean around us was turning to pewter and steel. When we reached home the house was quiet. Out in the garden the evening dew was touched by a breath of frost.
I love Corca Dhuibhne in autumn. Along the roads low shafts of sunlight strike fire from the crimson fuchsia, and trails of fallen blossoms stain the tarmac like wine.
In melting clumps by the ditches, the neon orange montbretia flowers are fading to tawny gold.
Today outside Tí Neillí Mhuiris, the paper-thin skin on onions drying on the willow tree shakes in the wind like scraps of half burnt vellum.
The hydrangeas I despised so much when we came here are freckled, dusty balls of damask light.
And today's the equinox. The turning-point between one season and another. A day when summer and winter hang perfectly in balance expressing all the dynamic potential of in-between times, when one moment waits serenely for the next.
Thursday, 6 September 2012
Glory be to God for dappled things -
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow, sweet, sour, adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:Praise him.
Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1877