Saturday 25 June 2011


Walking across the island,
We pass a mower in a tiny field,
Scythe swooshing, half the hay cut.

Over the dazzle of the water,
Fastnet is a finger held high
for a breeze that isn't blowing.

Back along the boreen,
The mower sleeps in the windrow,
Half the field still waiting.
Uploading a few more sketches. This is a ruined castle on a very-nearly-island on the coast of Clear Island, County Cork. We scrambled over to it, and sat up in the ruins. Fastnet Rock, with its lighthouse, is visible to the south of Clear Island.

Anji mentioned the poetry of the Shipping Forecast. This is a quick go at evoking that afternoon. We were there a week or so after the Fastnet race disaster. The storm had passed, of course.


  1. Poetry indeed. I wonder if the mowing was ever finished

    doesn't 'presqu'ile' have an English version?

  2. It does, but peninsula didn't seem to describe it adequately- as my notes say, "a peninsula only a few feet away from being an island"...

  3. I was in Devon that August, when the storm came. Remember the numb disbelief even of people inured to the sea.

    Love the finger testing for wind.

  4. Love the picture.