Skirr Cottage Journal 4.

Bilbo woke with the morning sun in his eyes. As did I. So much better than the grey mist, sweeping rain and dull cloudy days that seem to be the rule of thumb nowadays. Today the trees on the edge were bathed in golden light as if they were about to burst into flames. Today the sunlight played hide and seek among the trees like a spotlight scanning the landscape, then being switched on and off as if for fun.
Today a single lapwing flapped across the rough pasture with the promise of spring nestling in its dark wings like a golden orb.

Homage to Seamus Heaney. (April 13,1939 - August 30, 2013 / Castledàwson, County Londonderry)

A great man much missed.

Death Of A Naturalist

All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it. 

Seamus Heaney

Skirr Cottage Journal. 3.

      There are days, drizzle-wet, windy and cold days, when you think that nature will be dormant, sleepy, almost hibernating. But of course nature is always acting out its wonderful and mysterious performances. Like a drama that never ceases to amaze, scenarios are acted out all the time, both night and day. I was recently witness to one such occurrence. Whilst balancing precariously up a step ladder, pruning saw in hand up against some very tall and springy leylandii, my attention was drawn to a flapping sound down below, some five meters away on the pavement. There lay a pigeon, pinned expertly to the ground by a glaring male peregrine falcon. The pigeon lay motionless under its attacker, a few downy grey and white feathers drifted downwards like large snow flakes. As I stared spellbound at the falcon his fierce eyes soon alighted on me as if suddenly becoming aware of my presence. For a few precious seconds two worlds seemed to collide, the semi-ordered world of the human and the ancient untamed world of the natural hunter.

      But soon the show was over. The peregrine decided to release its grip and flew at great speed over the nearby fields. The pigeon to my astonishment rose to its feet and began to shuffle round in a tight circle as if trying to regain its bearing. Then, suddenly, as if regaining its senses it just flew away over the garden towards a stand of beech trees. Putting this episode in perspective, if I had been plucked from my ladder by a great bird of prey and pinned to the ground, I very much doubt after my release I would have continued my pruning!