Dear Wen: Extrusions…

Dear Wen…Arbor Low and Stanton Moor Imbolc 001 (99)

Well, I regard that as a tad unfair seeing as though my slug trails aren’t actually slug trails at all.

I quite like slugs anyway… admittedly it is not ideal to have herds of them wandering about the gaff like wildebeest on the Serengeti if that is indeed where such beasts hang out but the odd one dropping by to say hello is not too much of an imposition I shouldn’t have thought… Their ‘antennae’ are well cool… and fascinating to observe.

Ah, yes the synchronicities multiply indefinitely do they not?

Jung’s take on it was that such arbitrary correspondences speak of a greater reality the forms of which for the most part we can only grasp at like children trying to catch dreams… or butterflies…

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Up, In, Out, Down ~ Keith Hillman #writephoto

“It’s certainly a step up from your last place Seb,”  I said as I climbed my way to his front door.

“Indeed it is old fellow,”  he said, my pun having fallen on deaf ears.  “You can leave your shoes here in the vestibule”.  He pointed to a worn rubber mat in the porch.  “Let me give you a grande tournée of Manoir de Sebastian”.

He flung open a door.  “The parlour”,  he announced,  “or living room to you”.

Continue reading at Keith’s Ramblings

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The Small Dog’s Downfall

She said I was scruffy and needed a bath,

I said she’d be lucky, was having a laugh,

‘Cause my two-legs alone cannot lift me and hold me

The best she can do is manhandle and scold me

While she ends up dripping and I end up running…

My two-legs shampoo me alone? She was funning.

*

“Oh no, little Small Dog, we’ll try something new here…

Just come to me, girlie, I’ve got dry shampoo here.”

What, dry stuff, not wet stuff? Perhaps we could try it,

She’d not con me into the bath, ’cause I’d spy it,

I could do a runner, if she turned out sneaky..,

But ‘dry shampoo’ somehow did sound a bit freaky…

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Continue reading at The Small Dog’s Blog

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Grand celebration ~ Kitty #writephoto

Skipping a step or two,

Walking up the stairs,

Gazing at,

Freshly watered plants,

Continue reading at Kitty’s Verses

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Wild #midnighthaiku

Wilder horizons

Escape mediocrity

Touch a wider sky

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Tails from Westley Piddle: Donuts – Part One, from Zozo and Jools at Usual Muttwits

Reblogged from Muttwits:

Scratch are on the rise.  A nightmarish cross between furry little doggies and sharp-clawed killing machines.  They’re invading Westley Piddle and something’s gotta be done.  Donuts, the rugby-loving Welsh Terrier, decides enough is enough – at the infamous battle of the Tesco Extra 5 bins.

A particularly fresh-sniffing day in Westley Piddle, that inconsequential town on the Thameslick between Bisham and Cock Marsh. Winter snowlick is melting away as daffodils and croci burst from the ground in Herdwick pooping park, waving about and begging fourlegs to squirtz ‘ems. And wot can be better than that? When a squirtz is all that really matters to a fourlegs, apart from solid noshing, corss.

Trouble is, changing weather is making the bright hot ball in the sky brighter and attracting a lot of unwanted scratch.  It’s no longer safe for a decent fourlegs to go sniffing ‘round abouts the undergrowth and marker posts in the woods, cocking a leg.  Scratch just sit there, watching, waiting. An unspeakable contempt in their malign presence.  Wotz worse, more scratch are appearing in Westley Piddle. The opening of a scratch sanctuary down the far end of Nelson Avenue, close by Tesco Extra, may have something to do with it.

A particularly troublesome snifz is hanging over town and fours are in a tiswas. Ain’t natural!

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Shoes ~ S. S. #writephoto

Worn out shoes slip slide in the rain

sunrise kissing their love affair

Left to right …what a lovely pair

bustling to catch the early train

to their happy place yet again

Continue reading at Mindfills

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Dreaming Stones: Wild Beauty

Our first job on disembarking was to look for an air pump for the ever-deflating tyre that had caused us so much trouble that morning. Granted, it looked fine, but as the pump we had used was dodgy and the gauge even dodgier, I really wanted to check the pressure to be safe.

No luck in Tarbert, the tiny ferry port. Fuel we would be okay for, at least for a while. The drive to Callanish was only about forty miles and we would not be far from Stornaway, where well over half the twenty thousand residents of the island live… there was bound to be somewhere to fill up.

So off we went, taking the A859 northwards, from the Isle of Harris to the Isle of Lewis… which, oddly, are both the same landmass. They are not even divided at the obvious isthmus near Tarbert, where only the narrowest strip of land holds the two together, but further north.

I haven’t been able to find out exactly why the Long Island has two names, though it probably has something to do with the two branches of the Clan MacCleod who hold it, though it is home to Clan Morrison too. What we weren’t expecting was the distinctly different character of the two parts of the island.

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Callanish Calling: Port Uig…

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I have fond memories of Holyhead and the ferry to Dublin.

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These may, it is true, be now rose-tinted by time,

but I am sure that there is a pub in which we

enjoyed lunch and a couple of pints before boarding the ferry.

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Uig is not like that.

It is more a drive to it, join the queue,

and board the ferry sort of place…

*

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Worn ~ Neha #writephoto

The bruises she carried in her heart
were deeply worn like her steps
in her home
that helped her go up
while the other brought her down…

Continue reading at Forgotten Meadows

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