We often marvel at it's appearance, live and breathe on it, make homes and feed from it. Yet, do we truly understand the lie of the land? The following words extracted from longer poems and accompanying photography attempt to capture the immense beauty, fragility and mysteriousness of our Isles.

Sparkling white does the river flow,

where rapids foam and currents glow;

Hear churps that sound bumbarrels of tit,

In gangs they line over where I sit.

Far-flung are these oceans of green,

Featureless horizons of

repeated scene,

Featureless horizons of

repeated scene,

Of repeated scene.

Miraculous creatures of forty or more,

Whirling and circling before their bedtime calls.

Once the harvest was a joyous of thing,

With corn dollies, fiddles and farmers that sing.

Now it seems there is little time for chat,

Pressure for more has put a stop to that. 

Further behind a storm brews

Like an eerie sea it swallows us whole,

Belting its song of thunderous clap.

As nature would have it, in seamlessly so,

She perfects Her time with the sheep below.

To the heights beyond for Ireland to see,

Their kind litters the eyes to spoil and be. 

A moments rest, caught her graceful soar, 

As we drank sweet tea under eaves of straw.

Free to climb

on pastures old

for such beauty prevails

and memories mould. 

The mighty willow weeps her waning crown,

high over the river on the meadow's wilder side,

laced with familiar swing, drifting in yellow lines. 

Our Isles is a project celebrating and preserving the rural life of the British Isles,

exploring its food & drink, landscape, nature, art, craft, heritage and community.

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