Too Much Thinking.

 

Image-Storm.

Struggle for a bolt hole,

Through the torrent and the storm.

Gloomy, but dry

A tunnel is attained,

Turn back to glance

At holocaustic rain.

Slide back down the wall

To crouch against it all.

Light a damp packet cigarette,

Catch a moment to glance around

Sitting in the urchins' set

Where the lost are never found.

A rainbow of umbrellas

Protects the dead paving.

The gutter reek of London,

Absent from this place,

Where all the harm is undone,

Some sanctuary space.

Silent choir of dead angels,

Smile at futile charity.

The image-storm is set to last,

So brace yourself against the night,

Turn your collar up against the blast,

And slip away to seek the light.

 

Some of tonight's images will be a "bit fuzzy"...as the one above is... It wasn't late when I went to one of my favourite places, but the light was a bit hit and miss, and I wanted to push the camera and see what 12800 ISO could do.... instead of relying on the Auto ISO thing....

Suffice to say it managed, but there's so much noise when I didn't need it...and then, when I put it back on Auto, the results were an ISO of 200, or even 50, which was bonkers when I needed to milk the dim light for what I could possibly have go tout of it, but hey, I'm learning, trying, failing, learning, and I mean in photography really..... Not real life or anything..

Hmmm.

 

Now this one was also at the highest ISO  the camera can manage, and yet it's turned out not too bad...it was a lot gloomier there than this picture shows. 2e and I (and Gwyn, but she was away exercising rabbits....) weren't gloomy, it was just the light.

 

Cobs.

Every distant corner of this island,

When visited has been lightened by me

To the mass of a stone, or cob, or pebble,

Red striped, blue spot, green and hazy gold,

Chalk white, grey marbled, mottled pinks and then,

To return to my room, to sit on the mantle,

For a year or more, and to remove again,

To the pool, with darkened depths,

For the course of fate and land,

Entwined with axes to my universe,

And mental threads to futures and just

Another tiny archaeological puzzle, for geologists.

As a gardener I have a lot of practical use for Glyphosphate based weed-sprays, and use several pretty much most weeks, moreso in the actively growing season.

I know farmers rely on them for big jobs, and in various concentrations.....I also am well aware of the hype and hysteria there has been over their after effects, and that the EU is pretty much committed to banning them, after tightening up, again and again their sales, and licences and so on...

I am not going to get controversial here, but the first time I ever bought a 5 litre tub, the chap I bought it off was reknowned for drinking it, to prove it wasn't toxic....

I can't recall his full name, as I didn't buy any more off him, but I think his surname was "Spence".... He died a few years back at a fairly ripe old age....I can't comment on his state of mind though, which is relevant as there are allegations of a causal link with Altzheimers's Disease, and latterly cancers of various hues.....

Still, he drove a nice car......

The field above was "Glyfossed". I think you can tell which one I mean.....

 

This one.

 

I wonder if they did it before these Lapwing chicks were created, or hatched? I was chuffed to find them, but saddened to do the maths and realise that the first time I saw the few pairs of Lapwings in that field it was definitely 100% still green......

I present that without comment, or judgement rather. These chicks seemed alright to me, but I'm not a "birder", so what would I know?

As soon as mother realised I was there she sauntered off away from them, and as soon as she did so, they vanished.....as in, they dropped down to the ground and became as stones...... fascinating to see, but frustrating when I thought I'd got a better position to take more pictures.....!

Burnt Earth

The burnt earth that slips from the foot,

The drizzled hour in this grave of trees,

And innocent tyre tracks shout your name.

The discarded stone circle with hints of modernism,

Scorched black and flaky edged altar stone,

Desecrated by the Roman Catholic sandalled steps,

And abandoned by newly educated free-men.

Here the ancient is at your finger tips,

Just beyond instant response touch taste,

And the strength of the is/it flows from the ground.

The steps you felt yourself guided to take,

Or maybe the hidden scene shifting guardians,

Or something still less paranoid calls you now.

Here we stand, in this dream scarred once-grove,

With sacred moments of sheer swimming love,

And hand in hand we silently soak and our clothes

Catch the smell of recent wood fires.

The burnt stone under-hand blacks your skin,

And sadly we move through and deeper into

Our new found reborn living loving and the sun.

Soft drinks carton pirouettes a mockery play for us,

And I have you lightly on my silver thread.

A (chain-) harrowing experience all round......

So that's how to transport them, after all these years I never knew..........