Friday, November 27, 2009

Winter Trees

Winter Trees

The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing.
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.
Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history.
Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietas?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.

Sylvia Plath

And here is one with an angel

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Monday, October 26, 2009


Photos taken on my walk around the garden this morning. The poem is an old one.

October Rose

Will she hang on to Christmas or is her
blooming over? Once lush and luxuriant,
now she's just your late October rose, a
gift quite rare but all the more special in
your garden. Savour her, scarlet, salmon
or crimson, (not red-hot or blowsy), too
old for blushing yet still fine enough to
pick. Still beauteous of colour and still
romantic with scent enough to sate your
senses, thus inspiring a crush, or a
rush of love..... But her petals fall so quickly
now.  Too soon she will be gone to seed or
banished, quickly dried or cast away.

©Cait O’Connor

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Powis Castle and Gardens

Summer Shower

A drop fell on the apple tree,
Another on the roof;
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,
And made the gables laugh.
A few went out to help the brook,
That went to help the sea.
Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,
What necklaces could be!
The dust replaced in hoisted roads,
The birds jocoser sung;
The sunshine threw his hat away,
The orchards spangles hung.
The breezes brought dejected lutes,
And bathed them in the glee;
The East put out a single flag,
And signed the fete away.

Emily Dickinson

Tuesday, June 2, 2009


The Crystal Gazer

I shall gather myself into my self again,
I shall take my scattered selves and make them one.
I shall fuse them into a polished crystal ball
Where I can see the moon and the flashing sun.
I shall sit like a sibyl, hour after hour intent.
Watching the future come and the present go -
And the little shifting pictures of people rushing
In tiny self-importance to and fro.

Sara Teasdale