spring equinox – solar eclipse – super moon day

The Real Work by Wendell Berry

It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.



photo Rose Cook

for International Women’s Day


On Bringing Up Girls



Aren’t you going to clip her wings?

they said, That’s usual for a girl her age, isn’t it?

We said we didn’t want to clip her wings

and they watched our little daughter grow

bright and strong, then they said


Aren’t you going to tie her feet? That’s

advisable for a young girl, isn’t it?

We said we didn’t want to tie her feet

so they saw a young woman growing

clear and brave. Before they could say anything else

we said, Now it is time to teach her to fly.

They fell back.


They are teaching her to fly, they repeated,

teaching her to fly.

How wonderful, murmured their daughters,

and how interesting.



poem and photograph Rose Cook

poem from Notes From a Bright Field – Rose Cook (pub Cultured Llama 2013)

On Seeing and Loving


Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard     –     Mary Oliver

His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes – when he lifts their soft lids –
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder –
Blake, maybe,
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only
the black-smocked crickets,
and the dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds, and of course
the occasional festal mouse.
Never mind that he is only a memo
from the offices of fear –

it’s not size but surge that tells us
when we’re in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
down the little aluminium
ladder of his scream –
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns,

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet
rackets across the marshlands
of my heart
like a wild spring day.

Somewhere in the universe,
in the gallery of important things,
the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish,
sits on its pedestal.
Dear, dark dapple of plush!
A message, reads the label,
from that mysterious conglomerate:
Oblivion and Co.
The hooked head stares
from its house of dark, feathery lace.
It could be a valentine.

photo Rose Cook

At a time of grief




During and after my mother’s death

I left plenty of space for grieving

or so I thought.

It seems to need so much

perhaps, after all, I will need a new life.

All this brokenness and sitting still.


The cherry has been pink since December.

It blooms from dry branches,

never lets go.




poem and photograph Rose Cook

A new year to embrace

Everything Is Going to Be All Right

by Derek Mahon

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart;
the sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.

from New Collected Poems

photo Rose Cook