A closer view at the Wadden Sea during low tide. Then you can see the sand art created by lugworms.

""The lugworm or sandworm (Arenicola marina) is a large marine worm. They are not typically visible, but the casts produced by their burrowing make distinctive patterns in damp sand.

A singing lugworm figures in 'The Man Who Dreamed of Faeryland' by William Butler Yeats:

'But while he passed before a plashy place,

A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth

Sang that somewhere to north or west or south

There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race

Under the golden or the silver skies.'

The Wadden Sea (Dutch: Waddenzee, German: Wattenmeer, Low German: Wattensee or Waddenzee, Danish: Vadehavet, West Frisian: Waadsee, North Frisian: di Heef) is an intertidal zone in the southeastern part of the North Sea.

It lies between the coast of northwestern continental Europe and the range of Frisian Islands, forming a shallow body of water with tidal flats and wetlands. It is rich in biological diversity.

In 2009, the Dutch and German parts of the Wadden Sea were inscribed on UNESCO's World Heritage List and the Danish part was added in June 2014.""

Info - WiKi

Frogmore, The Ritual

I dwelt alone

In a world of moan,

And my soul was a stagnant tide,

Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-

Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

Ah, less- less bright

The stars of the night

Than the eyes of the radiant girl!

That the vapor can make

With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,

Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-

Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless

curl.

Now Doubt- now Pain

Come never again,

For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,

And all day long

Shines, bright and strong,

Astarte within the sky,

While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-

While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

Edgar Allan Poe

The historic Curly Phillips Boathouse floating nicely below Leah Peak on a windy day. Taken on last day of the season at Maligne Lake.

"Donald Nelson "Curly" Phillips was a Canadian guide, outfitter, entrepreneur, and explorer who was a part of many pioneering expeditions in the northern Canadian Rockies in the early twentieth century. He settled in Jasper, Alberta, and was involved in the development of mountain tourism in the region.

He built the historic boathouse in 1928 to accommodate the guests of his hunting and fishing trips. To boost his business, he raised the Maligne Lake rainbow trout, which he transported in barrels to Maligne Lake. Until his sudden death in an avalanche in 1936, he lived and dwelt in the boat house, which is now run by the Maligne Lake Tours." Wiki

Have a fabulous Friday and wonderful weekend!

The historic Curly Phillips Boathouse floating calmly under stormy skies.

"Donald Nelson "Curly" Phillips was a Canadian guide, outfitter, entrepreneur, and explorer who was a part of many pioneering expeditions in the northern Canadian Rockies in the early twentieth century. He settled in Jasper, Alberta, and was involved in the development of mountain tourism in the region.

He built the historic boathouse in 1928 to accommodate the guests of his hunting and fishing trips. To boost his business, he raised the Maligne Lake rainbow trout, which he transported in barrels to Maligne Lake. Until his sudden death in an avalanche in 1936, he lived and dwelt in the boat house, which is now run by the Maligne Lake Tours." Wiki

Thank you for any comments, faves and suggestions!

Poet's Pilgrimage to Waterloo - Sintra

XXII.

In Cintra also have I dwelt erewhile,

That earthly Eden, and have seen at eve

The sea-mists, gathering round its mountain pile,

Whelm with their billows all below, but leave

One pinnacle sole-seen, whereon it stood

Like the Ark on Ararat, above the flood.

[Robert Southey]

"Never dwelt I where great mornings shine

Around the bleating pens;

Never by the rivulets I strayed,

And never upon my childhood weighed

The silence of the glens." Alexander Smith

The Coupall in that nameless, shaded glen. Again. But further upstream this time.

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Location:@BBBB Studio

Thank you to LadyFantaC for posing

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Elf-King's Daughter

-Sir William Watson-

The Kingdom of Elfland, proud and free,

With only the Law of Delight to bind it,

Where is it truly famed to be?

'Tis wheresoever we list to find it.

O'erwatched by all its peaks of gold,

There dwelt beside the Magic Water,

In forests drowsy with silence old,

That wild white Bliss, the Elf-King's Daughter.

And the elfin world was all she knew,

Till at last, on rash and luckless pinions,

Out of her father's realm she flew,

And sped across Night to Man's dominions.

She flew through calms, she flew through storms,

She alighted here and mocked at danger;

But soon she beheld two darksome forms —

Pain the Unknown, and Death the Stranger.

Aghast she gazed upon both these twain:

She had seen no shapes that theirs resembled.

No word had she heard of Death or Pain,

And they looked in her face and she quailed and trembled.

She strove to flee, upon mistlike wings,

But the mistlike wings, with foiled endeavour,

Drooped aTher sides as useless things,

Palsied in this our air for ever.

So here she remains, a wandering sprite,

And guards her secret and veils her story;

And sometimes, far in the heart of night,

She hath a glimpse of her vanished glory.

For then this region in dreams she spurns,

Revisits the verge of the Magic Water,

In dreams to her father's court returns,

And is — till the dawn — the Elf-King's Daughter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shot taken at Elders Hollow

For many generations the Anasazi were hard taskmasters over the Diné, forcing them to carry wood and corn on their backs for long distances and perform menial acts of service. Eventually, a large and handsome man came from the east, appearing to 'rise out of where the sky and earth join together. He carried with him a long rod or staff. When he came amongst the Diné, he saw how they were being treated by the people who dwelt in the stone houses in the cliffs north of the San Juan River and he was very much displeased.' he told them to stop this harsh treatment, but they replied they were 'the greatest people in the world' and would do as they pleased. The stranger counselled the Diné that at the next moon they should prepare a feast of turkeys, rabbits, corn, paper bread, and other delicacies and serve it at places on the south bank of the San Juan and Little Colorado rivers. They sent runners to the cliff dwellers, who were 'great gluttons' and responded in large numbers. 'They were first to cross from along the north bank of the San Juan River as the feast was spread along the south bank for a distance of about four miles, and as the horde of cliff dwellers came forward to take part in the feast, they rushed to cross the river.' The stranger waited until they were in the middle of the river, then raised his arm to the level of his chest, twice waved his rod, and uttered some magic words. The Anasazi turned into fish instantly. He then faced westward and southwestward, pointed his rod in each direction, said the same magic words, and all the remaining cliff dwellers were struck with lockjaw and paralysis of the arms and the legs. They died within four days. By then, the Diné had eaten the feast they had prepared.

McPherson, R.S. "Sacred Land, Sacred View "

♫ The Lumineers | Pretty Pictures in My Mind ♫

All the countless fellow living beings around

Do they believe in fate or destiny ?

Nay, but succumb to the summons of nature

Live, and leave unwailing

Yet I trow, it is our own acts

Which make or mar our lives,

Eternal, worthy, bright and alive

Noble souls of yore who dwelt

This Earth have examples set.

Realize thyself unto us is the call

Not for transient joys to enthral

Dismayed when unsuccessful

Not midway meet the end, and fall

Self worried and worrying all

The Life in us is a well

That never dries, bearing no ills

Birth or death, it is a portal

To the knowledge of the Supreme Self

- Anuj Nair

------------------------------------------------------

© 2009 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.

-------------------------------------------------------

www.anujnair.net

________________________________________________

© 2009 Anuj Nair. All rights reserved.

All images and poems are the property of Anuj Nair.

Using these images and poems without permission is in violation of international copyright laws (633/41 DPR19/78-Disg 154/97-L.248/2000). All materials may not be copied, reproduced, distributed, republished, downloaded, displayed, posted or transmitted in any forms or by any means,including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording without written permission of Anuj Nair. Every violation will be pursued penally.

Harris Brown-ALL rights reserved. This image may not be used for ANY purpose without written permission.

Pennypack Trust, Huntingdon Valley, PA. USA

Thanks to all who take the time to view, comment on and favor my images. It is very much appreciated.

Cape May Warblers hunt insects among branches, sip nectar from flowers, or eat fruit. They take most food by probing and picking but also catch insects in midair or hover to pluck items from leaves and branches. During migration, they can be found in a wide variety of forested and shrubby habitats.

Nikon Z9 camera with Nikon Z600mm f 6.3 PF lens.

1/250 F6.3 ISO 2500 with fill flash

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.

John 1:14

A Dream Pang

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song

Was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;

And to the forest edge you came one day

(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,

But did not enter, though the wish was strong:

You shook your pensive head as who should say,

‘I dare not—too far in his footsteps stray—

He must seek me would he undo the wrong.

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all

Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;

And the sweet pang it cost me not to call

And tell you that I saw does still abide.

But ’tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,

For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.

Robert Frost

©Harris Brown-ALL rights reserved. This image may not be used for ANY purpose without written permission.

Yep, you're seeing right. This Eastern Willet only had one leg.

It wasn't pretty or graceful, but I watched him land and take off several times. He was able to feed himself and hung out with the other Willets. Why do you think he has only one leg?

Nikon D7200 with Nikon 500 mm f4 G VR ED lens with 1.4 converter

1/2000 F5.6 ISO 640

Thanks to all who take the time to view, comment on and favor my images. It is very much appreciated.

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in the land of the shadow of death, upon them a light has shined. - Isaiah 9:2

The Abbey Church of Saint Mary, Saint Bartholomew & Saint Guthlac

Crowland is a small market town in the fenlands of south Lincolnshire, just south of Spalding, The town's two historical points of interest are the ruined medieval Croyland Abbey and the 14th century three-sided Trinity bridge.

A monk named Guthlac came to what was then an island in the Fens to live the life of a hermit and he dwelt at Croyland between 699 and 714. Following in Guthlac’s footsteps, a monastic community came into being here in the 8th century. The Abbey was dissolved in 1539, the monastic buildings, including the chancel, transepts and crossing of the church appear to have been demolished fairly promptly but the nave and aisles had been used as the parish church and continue in that role to the present day.

Trinity bridge is a unique three-way stone arch bridge that stands in the town centre, while it once spanned the confluence of the River Welland and a tributary, the rivers have been re-routed and it now spans nothing. The current bridge dates to the 14th century, built between 1360 and 1390, and replaced previous wooden bridges.

I had been banished from heaven and sent to the mortal world where darkness also dwelt, my worst fear until I met him, I could never see him but his voice captivated me and I was sure to follow him to the depths of the underworld even I was ready to receive the same wounds he had, because for me, he had a brightness and a light that no one could perceive even him.

___________________________________________

It's an idea that I've wanted to express for a long time, and I was finally able to do it with what I feel inside me. I worked hard to make it look beautiful, so I hope you can appreciate it.

The palace of the Minotaurs

The Minotaur (Minotaurus in latin) is a mythical creature portrayed in Classical times with the head of a bull and the body of a man or, as described by Roman poet Ovid, a being "part man and part bull". The Minotaur dwelt at the center of the Labyrinth, which was an elaborate maze-like construction designed by the architect Daedalus and his son Icarus, on the command of King Minos of Crete. The Minotaur was eventually killed by the Athenian hero Theseus.

The Rhyton in the back was found in the archaological Minoan site of Knossos. It's a replica ofcourse.

If you're interested in mythology or history I can only , with much respect, recommend a visit to Crete, the archaeological sites an museums there.

Psalm 119:105 Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.

John 1:14 And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the Only Begotten of the Father), full of grace and truth.

EXPLORED

!!! חג שמח, החברים שלי

Happy Holiday, my Friends !

The photo is part of my photographic exhibition featuring 21 laminated panels. The images of the exhibit represent the symbols of Jewish festivals throughout the year.

The exhibition has been shown in various places.

See on flickr : "Light and Tradition"

www.flickr.com/photos/studiodobs/albums/72157689952244162

Sukkoth (Hebrew: סוכות‎ or סֻכּוֹת ), Feast of Booths, Feast of Tabernacles, is a biblical Jewish holiday celebrated on the 15th day of the month of Tishri.

The holiday lasts seven days in Israel and eight in the diaspora. The first day is a Shabbat-like holiday, when work is forbidden, followed by intermediate days called Chol Hamoed.

The Hebrew word sukkōth is the plural of sukkah, "booth" or "tabernacle", which is a walled structure, covered with leaves of palm and willow. The sukkah is intended as a reminiscence of the type of fragile dwellings in which, according to the Torah, the Israelites dwelt during their 40 years of travel in the desert, after the Exodus from slavery in Egypt.

Throughout the holiday, meals are eaten inside the sukkah and many people sleep there as well. A sukkah is also for the temporary dwelling in which agricultural workers would live during harvesting.

The festival is closed with another Shabbat-like holiday called Simchat Torah, The Joy of the Torah, that takes place in synagogue.This is the only time of year on which the Torah scrolls are taken out of the Ark. Then, when the Ark is opened, the worshippers leave their seats to dance and sing with the Torah scrolls in a joyous celebration that can last for several hours.

Tuesday, the Thirtieth Week in Ordinary Time

GOSPEL Lk 13:18-21

Our Gospel acclamation gives us the context, or I should say the lens on how we should read our readings today:

Blessed are you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth;

you have revealed to little ones the mysteries of the Kingdom.

The Kingdom of God is here today…we see it here in this sacred place…the Lord is present in the Tabernacle…and in each of us. This reality is reinforced when we receive Him in the Eucharist. This is to us a visible sign of an invisible reality.

I’m only going to focus on one of our two parables today:

Jesus said, “What is the Kingdom of God like?

To what can I compare it?

It is like a mustard seed that a man took and planted in the garden.

When it was fully grown, it became a large bush

and the birds of the sky dwelt in its branches.”

How is a mustard seed like the Kingdom of God? Firstly, the Kingdom of God is unfolding now…it began…at the crucifixion of Christ…the seed was buried….His persecutors thought that this was the end of the Jesus movement, but this was not to be. Three days later, he rises from the dead. He then declares…receive the Holy Spirit…and the Kingdom of God spreads throughout the whole world. It continues through us and one day…will fulfill its purpose.

You could say in a way that we are the mustard seed. The interesting thing, from my reading…is that a mustard bush was considered a noxious weed. It spreads like the worst of weeds.

Since it’s beginning, the world has tried to snuff out the Kingdom of God. Today they try to tell us it is under control. I smile…the Kingdom of God cannot be contained…for it resides within our hearts.

-rc

The Abbey Church of Saint Mary & Saint Bartholomew & Saint Guthlac

Detail of stained glass window

Crowland is a small market town in the fenlands of south Lincolnshire, just south of Spalding, The town's two historical points of interest are the ruined medieval Croyland Abbey and the 14th-century three-sided Trinity bridge.

A monk named Guthlac came to what was then an island in the Fens to live the life of a hermit and he dwelt at Croyland between 699 and 714. Following in Guthlac’s footsteps, a monastic community came into being here in the 8th century. The Abbey was dissolved in 1539, the monastic buildings, including the chancel, transepts and crossing of the church appear to have been demolished fairly promptly but the nave and aisles had been used as the parish church and continue in that role to the present day.

Trinity bridge is a unique three-way stone arch bridge that stands in the town centre, while it once spanned the confluence of the River Welland and a tributary, the rivers have been re-routed and it now spans nothing. The current bridge dates to the 14th century, built between 1360 and 1390, and replaced previous wooden bridges.

These mountains are the high point of landscape in Umbria, Italy. They are overwhelming in their beauty, certainly a treasure for any painter. Here allegedly dwelt the Sibyls, although I confess I never saw one. i shall post three different images, all SOOC, to give you an idea of this beautiful area. For more information on this area, see www.norcia.it/en/sibylline-mountains-national-park.aspx

View Large, please. Large in "sll sizes" is even better.

The foundation of Cortona remains mixed in legends dating to classical times. These were later reworked especially in the late Renaissance period under Cosimo I de' Medici. The 17th-century Guide of Giacomo Lauro, reworked from writings of Annio da Viterbo, states that 108 years after the Great Flood, Noah entered the Valdichiana via the Tiber and Paglia rivers. He preferred this place better than anywhere else in Italy, because it was so fertile, and dwelt there for thirty years. One of Noah's descendants was Crano, his son who came to the hilltop and, liking the high position, the fine countryside and the calm air, built the city of Cortona on it in 273 years after the Great Flood.

The red roof of this old, empty cottage blazes red in the dying sun, as a shrine to where love once dwelt in rich simplicity

Kids in village Jhinjhi, our second camping point of our trek to Saptkund in Garhwal Himalayas, India

"The people who walked in darkness

have seen a great light;

those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness,

on them has light shone."

Isaiah 9:2 ESV

Thank you for your comments and faves – they are greatly appreciated!

Select photos from my Flickr stream are available for purchase as prints or personal download at [www.winterfirephotographicarts.com].

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye

Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd…

Lord Byron

goo.gl/d8GEZf

El Templo Catedral de Santa María de Burgos, fue declarada Monumento nacional en 1885 y Patrimonio de la Humanidad en 1984. Casi 800 años despues doce poetas y un coro, todos ellos desde Salamanca, homenajean a Santa María. en su ciudad de Burgos.

" El verso se hizo cántico y habitó en la Galanura del Gótico"

The Cathedral Church of Santa Maria Burgos, was declared a National Monument in 1885 and a World Heritage Site in 1984.

Nearly 800 years later twelve poets and a chorus, all from Salamanca, pay tribute to Santa María. in the city of Burgos.

"The verse became song, and dwelt in the gallantry of the Gothic" .

UNA MUESTRA/ an example

youtu.be/VZu2i88WUV4

font: Cavalier.

texture and effects by Remember Remember.

O miller of the Dee!

A Sandhill crane, in morning’s glow,

Glides through a world only she can know.

Yet beside her walks a kindred flame,

No wings to fly, but just the same.

In silence they dance, in rhythm they sway,

Two hearts entwined in nature’s ballet.

The crane steps lightly, her partner near,

No need for words, their bond is clear.

The marsh hums softly, a whispered tune,

As they weave their story till afternoon.

The music rises, unheard yet felt,

A shared connection where belonging dwelt.

Twilight whispers, the day must fade,

But their friendship lingers, in the bond they made.

For no wings are needed when souls can soar,

And the language of friendship speaks evermore.

Lost

I had some friends fly in last weekend :))

At Towneley park

Burnley

Lancashire

A DREAM PANG

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song

Was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;

And to the forest edge you came one day

(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,

But did not enter, though the wish was strong:

You shook your pensive head as who should say,

'I dare not - too far in his footsteps stray -

He must seek me would he undo the wrong.

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all

Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;

And the sweet pang it cost me not to call

And tell you that I saw does still abide.

But 'tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,

For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.

Robert Frost

The Abbey Church of Saint Mary & Saint Bartholomew & Saint Guthlac

Crowland is a small market town in the fenlands of south Lincolnshire, just south of Spalding, The town's two historical points of interest are the ruined medieval Croyland Abbey and the 14th-century three-sided Trinity bridge.

A monk named Guthlac came to what was then an island in the Fens to live the life of a hermit and he dwelt at Croyland between 699 and 714. Following in Guthlac’s footsteps, a monastic community came into being here in the 8th century. The Abbey was dissolved in 1539, the monastic buildings, including the chancel, transepts and crossing of the church appear to have been demolished fairly promptly but the nave and aisles had been used as the parish church and continue in that role to the present day.

Trinity bridge is a unique three-way stone arch bridge that stands in the town centre, while it once spanned the confluence of the River Welland and a tributary, the rivers have been re-routed and it now spans nothing. The current bridge dates to the 14th century, built between 1360 and 1390, and replaced previous wooden bridges.

Psalm 94:17 “If Yahweh had not been my help, my soul would soon have dwelt in the abode of silence.”

Pams Art

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:

And, when I crossed the wild,

I chanced to see at break of day

The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt where none abide

The sweetest thing that ever grew

Upon the mountainside!

You yet may spy the fawn at play

The hare among the green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

“To-night will be a stormy night—

You to the town must go;

And take a lantern, Child, to light

Your mother through the snow.”

“That, Father! Will I gladly do:

'Tis scarcely afternoon —

The village clock has just struck two,

And yonder is the moon!”

At this the Father turned his hook,

To kindling for the day'

He plied his work; — and Lucy took

The lantern on her way.

As carefree as a mountain doe:

A fresh, new path she broke

Her feet dispersed the powdery snow,

That rose up just like smoke.

The storm came on before its time"

She wandered up and down;

And many a hill did Lucy climb:

But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them as a guide.

At daybreak on a hill they stood

That overlooked the scene;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

That spanned a deep ravine.

They wept &mdash and, turning homeward, cried,

"In Heaven we all shall meet!";

— When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge

They tracked the footmarks small;

And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed:

The marks were still the same;

They tracked them on, not ever lost;

And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank

Those footmarks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none!

— Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

A few months ago, on one of my occasional weekend space-trips, I had picked up a magic lens that was capable of time-travel and simultaneous thematic image capture across multiple time-windows ;-) Since then this magic lens has received multiple automatic software-upgrades transmitted via the medium of sun-rays ;-) It seems to me that the upgraded lens has now begun to exhibit early signs of appreciating human speech and emotions :-O This realization dawned on me during my recent stay in Pondicherry (Paris of the East).

One evening in Pondicherry I had set up my camera with the magic lens, on a tripod, near the old pier hoping to capture a few interesting blue-hour photos. Out of the blue, an old friend of mine, who I had not met for a while, spotted me there on his evening walk. Soon we were totally engrossed in a deep conversation about one of our favorite subjects - visual arts - and dwelt quite a bit on the first fully painted animated feature film Loving Vincent. After my friend departed I turned to my camera to discover that (and this is a bit of a guesswork on my part) - the magic lens had felt badly neglected and utterly bored during the time I was talking to my friend :-( and since I had left the camera switched on, the magic lens had decided to make a definitive point to me by clicking, on its own, a bunch of 'art-like' photos ( à la Vincent van Gogh paintings) >:-{

By the time I got back to the camera, I was left with a completely drained camera battery and a whole lot of art-like photos taken by the magic lens! This is one of the better ones, in my opinion, from that lot. Hope you all like it :-)

Happy Slider Sunday!

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Thank you for viewing, faving and commenting :-)

© All rights reserved for the complete post (image+text).

In a realm cloaked in the folds of whimsy, nestled the land of Plushshire, where the sentient stufflings—Stufflepuffs and Tedwardians—dwelt in a fabric-bound fraternity. This was until the day the Revolt of the Cuddly Toys unfurled, stitching dissent between the Hoppington Hares of Fluffborough and the Bearington Bears of Pawston.

Our plush protagonist, Sir Cuddleton Patchworthy, was a Bearwardian of great renown. His valor was famed throughout the Tusslemeadows of Thimbleton, and in the fray, he became threadbare, a hero frayed but not defeated.

Sir Cuddleton, knight of the revered Wovenkeep, possessed knowledge of the arcane Twirlwinds—a spellthread capable of reweaving the most tattered of toy souls. In his recovery, tended by the crafty paws of Madam Purlina Webwhisker, the sage of Seams, Patchworthy contemplated the raveled threads of war.

The Neverolds, eternal children of Plushshire, observed the fray through teary glass eyes. In their wisdom, they conceived a plot most playful: the Larkspur Labyrinth, a playground so beguiling that no stuffed soldier could resist its siren song of serenity. Here, in this haven of hilarity, the disheartened warriors laid down their cotton cudgels and embraced their erstwhile enemies.

Sir Cuddleton Patchworthy, now adorned with the emblem of empathy began his most important quest. He traversed Plushshire, from the cushiony hills of Napvale to the silken sands of Drowsy Dunes, spinning tales of solace and stitching unity into the fabric of every toy's being.

And so, the yarn of the Revolt of the Cuddly Toys unwound to an uneasy stillness. Plushshire was suspended in a delicate balance, as if the very air held its breath. Sir Cuddleton Patchworthy, erstwhile warrior, now dubbed 'The Tranquil,' became a legend in hush tones and half-whispers.

For in the shadows of playtime's joy and the soft echoes of laughter, there lingered a thread of unease. The Neverolds knew, as all who've watched the cycle of tales unfold, that darkness can restitch itself anew. And as the moonlight danced upon the Larkspur Labyrinth, they wondered quietly: would the stitches of peace hold, or would they unravel in the silent whispers of the night?

Medusa, The Myth Unfold - Poem by Xelam Kan

Suspend for a while your sense of query,

I am to tell you an old tragic story

Revealed unto my solemn heart

A myth that was wrongfully taught

In a far land of ancient Greece

Dwelt a highland lass in peace,

Fairer than Helen was she, in appearance

I, in lines few reveal unto you

Her virtue and her acquaintance.

Gentle to all young and old

By heaven and earth she was extolled,

In youth she served the goddess`s temple

From soul to heart was innocent ample,

Vanity and vengeance from a heavenly figure*

Eroded the life of this maiden fair,

For the sin of temptation of heavenly race**

She was cursed and horridly deface

With venomous vipers, rattling around her neck,

That turned a being into rock

With her noxious gaze and look.

The anguish that never had quenched

A fragrance that turned into a stinky stench,

As she refused the gods to be wench.

A rustic figure with crying heart

Ah! Demon and monster she was thought.

Her cheer and bloom

Melted like a mist and made her gloom,

Her sole recreation in that dreadful park

Was to scrub and scratched dust from rock.

For years of infinity

She was blest with malevolent charity

Till Perseus the Demi-god

Beheaded her and ceased her life odd.

The Abbey Church of Saint Mary & Saint Bartholomew & Saint Guthlac

Crowland is a small market town in the fenlands of south Lincolnshire, just south of Spalding, The town's two historical points of interest are the ruined medieval Croyland Abbey and the 14th-century three-sided Trinity bridge.

A monk named Guthlac came to what was then an island in the Fens to live the life of a hermit and he dwelt at Croyland between 699 and 714. Following in Guthlac’s footsteps, a monastic community came into being here in the 8th century. The Abbey was dissolved in 1539, the monastic buildings, including the chancel, transepts and crossing of the church appear to have been demolished fairly promptly but the nave and aisles had been used as the parish church and continue in that role to the present day.

Trinity bridge is a unique three-way stone arch bridge that stands in the town centre, while it once spanned the confluence of the River Welland and a tributary, the rivers have been re-routed and it now spans nothing. The current bridge dates to the 14th century, built between 1360 and 1390, and replaced previous wooden bridges.

In a town so inconspicuous that it eluded every map, there dwelt a young inventor by the name of Elian Tinkerfield. Elian was captivated by the cogs of time, by seconds piling into minutes, and minutes constructing hours. His life was a tribute to clocks and chronometers, and at the tender age of twenty, he commenced his magnum opus: a time machine.

Day and night Elian toiled, spurred on by a melody once heard from an ancient music box, which whispered in refrain: "bitte bleib stehen, bleib stehen, Zeit." His contraption was a fantastical assembly of pendulums and steam, of copper pipes and aged pocket watches gleaned from the stalls of flea markets. And then, one day, as the clock struck twelve, he activated the device and unfurled a shimmering time portal.

Stepping through, Elian emerged in a realm where time coursed backward. Children gambolled in retrograde innocence, the aged reverted to youth, and Elian himself became... 101 years of age. He had been rendered an old man, yet with the intellect of a youth.

He ambled through a world at once familiar and bizarre. Rivers flowed uphill, trees defoliated only to burst into full bloom. Elian perceived that all once beautiful was unwinding in reverse. He witnessed lovers devolving from passionate embraces to shy glances and thought, "Ah, if it could but last forever."

Yet Elian knew he could not linger in this antithetical cosmos. He yearned to preserve the beauty of the moment where youth was not adversity, and the end did not loom. Thus, he returned to the machine and reverted the flow of time.

He arrived back in his own era, not as the youth he once was, but as a centenarian, ensnared in time's relentless current.

The machine was never again employed. He now understood the words of the song that had once inspired him: "bitte bleib stehen, bleib stehen, Zeit." But time would not heed such pleas. It is a future that cannot be conjured.

In his final days, Elian found solace in life's minutiae—the smile of a child, the warmth of the sun, the aroma of freshly baked bread. He had lived, had loved, and now it was time to depart, as the song went, "when it is most wondrous."

When Elian at last closed his eyes forever, the world paused for an infinitesimal moment — in the perfect moment.

Inspired by the song "Zeit" by Rammstein

In our garden

Herb Robert growing and spreading; and looking lovely.

Natures colours are brilliant.

Stacksteads

Lancashire

A DREAM PANG

Robert Frost

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song

Was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;

And to the forest edge you came one day

(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,

But did not enter, though the wish was strong:

You shook your pensive head as who should say,

'I dare not - too far in his footsteps stray -

He must seek me would he undo the wrong.

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all

Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;

And the sweet pang it cost me not to call

And tell you that I saw does still abide.

But 'tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,

For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.

For sale on gettyimages

My Board "Agion oros (Saint Mount Athos)" on gettyimages

My photos for sale on getty images

Το album για το Άγιον όρος Holy Mount Athos

στο προσωπικό μου blog ΛΟΓΕΙΚΩΝ Logikon

Περιλαμβάνει περίπου 150 εικόνες ,σκέψεις μου,πληροφορίες και παραπομπές ώστε να αποτυπώνεται πλήρως η εμπειρία μου στο "Περιβόλι της Παναγίας"

The album for Άγιον όρος Holy Mount Athos

on my personal blog ΛΟΓΕΙΚΩΝ Logikon.

It contains about 150 images, my thoughts, information and references to fully reflect my experience at "The Virgin's Garden"

Η Μονή Κουτλουμουσίου είναι Ελληνική κοινοβιακή Μονή του Αγίου Όρους, 6η κατά ιεραρχική τάξη. Φέρεται επίσης και με το όνομα Ιερά Μονή Μεταμόρφωσης του Σωτήρος, στην οποία είναι αφιερωμένο το καθολικό της, το οποίο είναι θεμελιωμένο πάνω σε κορμούς δέντρων εξαιτίας της αστάθειας του εδάφους και είναι μολυβδοσκέπαστο. Το καθολικό της μονής, κτίσμα του 1370, τοιχογραφήθηκε το 1540[1], πλην του νάρθηκα, ο οποίος τοιχογραφήθηκε το 1744[2][3]. Στην αριστερή μεριά της λιτής του καθολικού βρίσκεται το παρεκκλήσι της Παναγίας της Φοβεράς Προστασίας, όπου και η θαυματουργός εικόνα - Προστάτις της μονής.

Ιδρύθηκε επί Αυτοκράτορα Αλέξιου Α' Κομνηνού περί τη λήξη του ΙΑ' αιώνα. Το δε όνομα δόθηκε από τον σελτζουκικής καταγωγής Κουτλουμούς (που έκτισε ή αφιέρωσε ή διέμεινε)[4] Στο τέλος του 14ου αιώνα με Πατριαρχικό σιγίλλιο η μονή ανακηρύσσεται σε Πατριαρχική και σταυροπηγιακή. Στην περιοχή της Μονής βρίσκεται και το κελί της Παναγούδας, όπου ασκήτεψε επί μακρόν έως το θάνατο του ο Όσιος Παϊσιος.

Koutloumousiou Monastery is a Greek Orthodox Monastery on Mount Athos, 6th in a hierarchical order. It is also known as the Holy Monastery of the Transfiguration of the Savior, which is dedicated to its katholikon, which is founded on tree trunks because of the instability of the soil and is leaded. The katholikon of the monastery, built in 1370, was painted in 1540 [1], with the exception of the narthex, which was frescoed in 1744 [2] [3]. On the left side of the plain of the katholikon there is the chapel of the Virgin of Fearful Protection, where the miraculous icon - Protestantis of the monastery.

It was founded on the Emperor Alexios I Komnenos on the end of the IA century. The name was given by the village of Kutloumi (which he built or dedicated or dwelt). [4] At the end of the 14th century, the monastery was proclaimed Patriarchal and Styrian. In the area of ??the Monastery is also the cell of Panagouda, where he practiced for a long time until the death of Saint Paisios.

Keeping an eye on the ferries. The next one going north is ours – the last one for the day heading to Bellagio for more walking about, dinner and then to return later in the evening on the vehicular ferry to Varenna.

This rounds off what was a most unexpected and fabulous afternoon, on which I have dwelt a great deal here. We are so glad that we sailed on past Argegno 😊

in winders lea, dwelt a boy,

who over his head did toil,

-nothing than his flock.

but one morning, while tending,

and speaking to his flock,

he saw a wolf in the mountains,

who strolled and was planted in his thought.

he gathered quickly his lambs to a hide (tent),

and while he kept them,-

over his head did toil,

‘the men with the lion’s skin,

and the girls all about him,

and how his lambs and cattle smiled

and felt protected in his shade’

he looked at the faces of his own,

and their fear stared him back in the face’

and put his listening to their heart,

to did hear their fright.

and when he slept that night,

he dreamt of all the honors a wild cat hide can earn,

and dreamt of his flock dancing and leaping…

and he dreamt, that he woke to such thoughts,

to set the field ablaze,

for if he goes up the mountain, grazing-

he may be asked, why he didn’t graze his sheep in the array acre of grass before the mountain…

so at night, the little boy went, and set the grasses on fire.

the grasses that was for all…

so he took his club, and stone and sling

and went up the mountain, for the wolf out of his path…

and flocked his tired lambs around,

searching and searching for the wolf,

and soon he caught the wolf in a cave up there,

nursing her cubs, distracted by their needs,

so he kept his lambs in the distance,

as he went to club the wolf to death…

the boy clubbed her cubs too, and kept in his bag,

and returned to his lambs,

only to find them dead of exhaustion,

from the smoke and hunger,

and other beast that came while he sought the wolf…

now he descended with the dead wolfs, but not his lambs,

and as he walked through his town,

he said to men, ‘here is the wolf that killed them all’

and the men gathered, with their bows and guns

and marched upon the mountains,

and killed many a beast, for fear their own…

and returned they did, with their bodies

and kept them their hides.

and so in this town of winders call,

the hide of a wild cat became so common that it lost its value…

and so lost this shepherd, his flock, without gaining a thing.

but the dead of the mountains, had their spirit a roam,

and the lambs that now has to walk a thousand miles to feed,

all did curse the one that set the field ablaze.

The beautiful island is noted as a center of the Islamic sect al-Ibadhiyah and is also noted for its Jewish minority, which has dwelt on the island for more than 2,500 years, although populations have declined recently due to emigration to Israel and France since 1967. The group of Jews were a close group of Cohanim, a tribe in Judaism and they remained Cohanim up until recently-not losing their traditions. The El Ghriba synagogue is the oldest and one of the most famous in the world, and has been a synagogue for 2,000 years.

Sunset on DjerbaIn the early 20th century the island of Djerba had a population of forty thousand, several hundreds of whom were Maltese Catholics earning a livelihood as sponge-fishers.

Djerba is also known for its exceptional beaches, landscapes and hotels.

Girba remains a Roman Catholic titular see in the ecclesiastical province of African Tripoli.

For sale on gettyimages (Different process)

My board “Portrait and people” on Getty Images

My Board "Agion oros (Saint Mount Athos)" on gettyimages

My photos for sale on getty images

Το album για το Άγιον όρος Holy Mount Athos

στο προσωπικό μου blog ΛΟΓΕΙΚΩΝ Logikon

Περιλαμβάνει περίπου 150 εικόνες ,σκέψεις μου,πληροφορίες και παραπομπές ώστε να αποτυπώνεται πλήρως η εμπειρία μου στο "Περιβόλι της Παναγίας"

The album for Άγιον όρος Holy Mount Athos

on my personal blog ΛΟΓΕΙΚΩΝ Logikon.

It contains about 150 images, my thoughts, information and references to fully reflect my experience at "The Virgin's Garden"

Η Μονή Κουτλουμουσίου είναι Ελληνική κοινοβιακή Μονή του Αγίου Όρους, 6η κατά ιεραρχική τάξη. Φέρεται επίσης και με το όνομα Ιερά Μονή Μεταμόρφωσης του Σωτήρος, στην οποία είναι αφιερωμένο το καθολικό της, το οποίο είναι θεμελιωμένο πάνω σε κορμούς δέντρων εξαιτίας της αστάθειας του εδάφους και είναι μολυβδοσκέπαστο. Το καθολικό της μονής, κτίσμα του 1370, τοιχογραφήθηκε το 1540[1], πλην του νάρθηκα, ο οποίος τοιχογραφήθηκε το 1744[2][3]. Στην αριστερή μεριά της λιτής του καθολικού βρίσκεται το παρεκκλήσι της Παναγίας της Φοβεράς Προστασίας, όπου και η θαυματουργός εικόνα - Προστάτις της μονής.

Ιδρύθηκε επί Αυτοκράτορα Αλέξιου Α' Κομνηνού περί τη λήξη του ΙΑ' αιώνα. Το δε όνομα δόθηκε από τον σελτζουκικής καταγωγής Κουτλουμούς (που έκτισε ή αφιέρωσε ή διέμεινε)[4] Στο τέλος του 14ου αιώνα με Πατριαρχικό σιγίλλιο η μονή ανακηρύσσεται σε Πατριαρχική και σταυροπηγιακή. Στην περιοχή της Μονής βρίσκεται και το κελί της Παναγούδας, όπου ασκήτεψε επί μακρόν έως το θάνατο του ο Όσιος Παϊσιος.

Koutloumousiou Monastery is a Greek Orthodox Monastery on Mount Athos, 6th in a hierarchical order. It is also known as the Holy Monastery of the Transfiguration of the Savior, which is dedicated to its katholikon, which is founded on tree trunks because of the instability of the soil and is leaded. The katholikon of the monastery, built in 1370, was painted in 1540 [1], with the exception of the narthex, which was frescoed in 1744 [2] [3]. On the left side of the plain of the katholikon there is the chapel of the Virgin of Fearful Protection, where the miraculous icon - Protestantis of the monastery.

It was founded on the Emperor Alexios I Komnenos on the end of the IA century. The name was given by the village of Kutloumi (which he built or dedicated or dwelt). [4] At the end of the 14th century, the monastery was proclaimed Patriarchal and Styrian. In the area of ??the Monastery is also the cell of Panagouda, where he practiced for a long time until the death of Saint Paisios.

Don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. Any use without permission is prohibited and illegal.

Copyright © Antoniociro 2014 All Rights Reserved

Thank you for your visit and comment!

_______________________________________________

La Marina, uno dei quattro quartieri storici di Cagliari venne fondata dai Pisani nel XIII secolo come zona destinata ad ospitare magazzini e dimore di quanti lavoravano presso il vicino porto. In quei tempi lontani, venne cinto da mura e bastioni, riammodernate in seguito dagli spagnoli e infine demolite a partire dalla seconda metà del XIX secolo per far posto ai tre importanti assi viari Cagliaritani.

Dal XIV secolo, con la dominazione aragonese prima e spagnola poi, Marina crebbe come numero di abitanti e assunse sempre di più la connotazione di quartiere vivamente trafficato e animato da commerci dove per lo più dimoravano mercanti e pescatori e, comunità di persone rappresentanti le terre e le città con cui vi erano più stretti rapporti commerciali (ad esempio la comunità di siciliani, che faceva capo alla chiesa di Santa Rosalia e la comunità di genovesi, che facevano capo alla chiesa dei Santi Giorgio e Caterina).

Oggi la Marina si presenta come un quartiere carico di storia, (ma anche di localini dove poter trascorrere piacevolmente con amici la serata) che cerca lentamente di trovare il giusto modo per valorizzare le sue bellezze, spesso messe in pericolo dall'incuria e dal degrado e dalla speculazione edilizia del dopoguerra.

_________________________________________

The Marina, one of the four historical quarters of Cagliari was founded by Pisans in the 13th century as the area destined to accommodate warehouses and dwellings of those who worked at the nearby port. In those distant times, was surrounded by walls and ramparts, later refurbished by the Spanish and finally demolished starting from the second half of the 19th century to make room for three major axis Cagliari.

From the 14th century, with the aragonese domination first and then Spanish, Marina grew as the number of inhabitants and increasingly took on the connotation of a highly trafficked area, and animated by shops where dwelt mostly merchants and fishermen and community of people representing the lands and cities with which we were closer business relations (e.g. the Sicilian community, who was head of the Church of Santa Rosalia and the community of Genoa, who were headed to the Church of Saints George and Catherine).

Today the Marina looks like a neighborhood full of history, (but also of places where you can spend the evening with friends) that slowly tries to find the right way to valorise its beauties, often jeopardized by the neglect and degradation and encroachments by the post-war period.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXiQBnB6kgc

O God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come,

Our shelter from the stormy blast,

And our eternal home.

Under the shadow of Thy throne

Thy saints have dwelt secure;

Sufficient is Thine arm alone,

And our defense is sure.

O God, our help in ages past.

Before the hills in order stood,

Or earth received her frame,

From everlasting Thou art God,

To endless years the same.

A thousand ages in Thy sight

Are like an evening gone;

Short as the watch that ends the night

Before the rising sun.

O God, our help in ages past

O God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come,

Be Thou our guard while troubles last,

And our eternal home.

O God, our help in ages past

In the deep, shadowed recesses of the Misty Caves of Torzgark, where few dare to tread, there dwelt two ancient trolls of grim renown, Zintog and Grobluk by name. In the forgotten tongues of old, their names were spoken with a shudder, for the lore of their kind was steeped in the darkness of ages long past.

In those days, the trolls were beset by a malady most cruel, known among their folk as Glimmerblink. This affliction gnawed at their very sight, causing their great yellow eyes to weep and burn with an unholy fire, as though some curse had bound their vision to eternal suffering. The faintest glimmer of light was to them a torment, and the slightest sound could rouse in them a fury unmatched.

It was upon a day of great stillness, when the world above was veiled in mist and shadow, that these two trolls sought their rest in the deepest of their caverns, where no sunlight could reach. But their slumber was not to be undisturbed, for there came into their domain a being from the world of Men—a man strange of bearing, and stranger still in purpose. Throllibus of Humperding was his name, a wanderer of curious nature, whose heart was ever drawn to dark and hidden places where the light of day dared not shine.

Throllibus, in his folly, sought the fabled crystals of the Misty Caves, said to hold the light of the stars within their faceted depths. But he knew not of the trolls who guarded these treasures, nor of the curse that afflicted them. As he stumbled through the darkened passages, his foot struck a loose stone, and with a great clatter it fell, the sound echoing like thunder through the halls of the trolls.

Zintog stirred first, his heavy lids lifting with a slow and dreadful weariness. “Grobluk, brother, dost thou hear that clamor? What wretched soul dares to break our sacred rest?”

Grobluk, though sluggish in his pain, roused himself at the sound. “By all the torments of the deep places, it is a Man, I deem! The scent of his kind fouls the air—clean and sharp, as though it hath never known the sweet decay of the earth.”

Throllibus, who had by now perceived the terrible beings whose abode he had intruded upon, quaked with fear. He saw their vast eyes, red-rimmed and glowing with a baleful light, and the sight filled him with dread. Yet, mustering his courage, he spoke. “Great lords of the deep, I beg thy pardon! I knew not that these halls were thine. I seek only the crystals, the light of which is said to heal and to preserve.”

“Crystals!” Zintog’s voice rumbled like the grinding of stones. “Thou speakest of healing, when these accursed gems have brought naught but misery to our eyes! See how they burn, how they weep! ‘Tis the work of Men, who brought these stones into our realm, and with them this blight.”

Grobluk groaned, his great hands rising to clutch at his burning eyes. “Would that we could crush all who tread here! But this agony—this Glimmerblink—hath sapped our strength. Yet now, a Man stands before us, with words of healing upon his lips. Speak quickly, if thou wouldst save thyself!”

Throllibus, sensing a chance to save his skin, reached into his satchel and produced a small vial of simple design, marked with runes of a forgotten tongue. “Behold, lords of stone and shadow, this is Man’s Balm, known in the lore of my people. It is said to soothe the fiercest of inflammations, to cool the fires of fever, and to bring peace to the weary eyes.”

The trolls, though wary, were driven by their pain to desperation. Zintog took the vial in his massive hand, the balm appearing tiny and fragile in his grasp. “If thou speakest truth, Man, then thou may yet depart these halls with thy life. But if this be a trick…”

“No trick,” Throllibus stammered, “I swear it by the light of Eärendil’s star.”

At the mention of that ancient star, the trolls hesitated, for even they, in their deep places, knew of the light that had been set as a beacon for the weary and the lost. And so, with a grim resolve, they applied the balm to their inflamed eyes.

A moment passed, then another, and slowly the fires of their affliction began to dim. The burning lessened, and the weeping ceased. Zintog and Grobluk blinked in astonishment, their sight clear for the first time in many long years.

“It… it is as thou saidst,” Zintog rumbled, his voice now softer, less burdened by pain. “This balm hath healed us, Man.”

But before they could offer their thanks or speak further, Throllibus vanished in a swirl of mist, leaving only a faint echo of laughter behind. It was then that the trolls realized the truth: the man had not been a man at all, but Throgmuck, an ancient troll of legend, who had taken the form of a wandering sage to test their hearts and to guard the hidden treasures of Torzgark.

Grobluk laughed, a deep and rumbling sound that shook the stones. “So it was the old trickster Throgmuck all along! We have been fooled, brother, but in a way that hath brought us peace.”

“Indeed,” Zintog agreed, a smile breaking across his stony visage. “And now, the tale of Man’s Balm shall be told in our halls, though it was no Man who wrought this healing.”

And so it was that the tale spread among the trolls of Torzgark, of the wondrous balm that could cure even the most grievous of trollish ills, and of the ancient guardian who still watched over the deep places, his laughter echoing in the dark.

Translations in German,French and Spanish in the first comments.

Burnley / Cliviger area

On the way back home from Burnley to Stacksteads.

We’d been to Towneley park with Patches.

Cliviger is a small village, though apparently Cliviger as an area is bigger than Burnley; Cliviger is a red rose village situated between Burnley and the Yorkshire town of Todmorden.

In the foreground is a random stone wall built with a sand / cement mortar. My favourite type of wall to build. I love them. Days fly by when you’re building these.

On the Pennines

Lancashire

A DREAM PANG

Robert Frost

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song

Was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;

And to the forest edge you came one day

(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,

But did not enter, though the wish was strong:

You shook your pensive head as who should say,

‘I dare not—too far in his footsteps stray—

He must seek me would he undo the wrong.

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all

Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;

And the sweet pang it cost me not to call

And tell you that I saw does still abide.

But ’tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,

For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.