Saturday, April 26, 2008

Greenway

The stained glass windows in yesterday's post are in St Matthew's Church in Windsor. The first time I saw this church I remember thinking that its lovely simplicity was exactly like a Francis Greenway building. It turns out, Francis Greenway a convict architect from the early days of the colony, was the architect of this building.


Photo: St Matthews Church, Windsor


This is a repost to participate in this week's taphophile tragics.  The original post was about the church but when looking back through past posts that suit the meme I realised the church also has a graveyard.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Rememberence

It is Anzac Day -- for me always a mixture of church-like solemnity and celebration.

Photo: St Matthew's Church, Windsor

Musing:
They read from this Psalm at the Anzac Day dawn service at Gallipoli today
Psalm 139 from the Holy Bible English Stardard Version
"O LORD, you have searched me and known me!
You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from afar.
You search out my path and my lying down
and are acquainted with all my ways.
Even before a word is on my tongue,
behold, O LORD, you know it altogether."

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Farmland

Here's the view from the farmhouse.


Photo: Farmland near Windsor

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Old Farmhouse

Photo: Old House, Richmond/Windsor

This wonderful old house is on the farmland out from Windsor or Richmond. I can't remember which as it is an old photo. Who knows, it may be restored to its former beauty today, or maybe abandoned by now.

Musing:
Abandoned Farmhouse by Ted Kooser
"He was a big man, says the size of his shoes
on a pile of broken dishes by the house;
a tall man too, says the length of the bed
in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man,
says the Bible with a broken back
on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;
but not a man for farming, say the fields
cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn.

A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall
papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves
covered with oilcloth, and they had a child,
says the sandbox made from a tractor tire.
Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves
and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole.
And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames.
It was lonely here, says the narrow country road.

Something went wrong, says the empty house
in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields
say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars
in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste.
And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard
like branches after a storm-a rubber cow,
a rusty tractor with a broken plow,
a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say."

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Eternity

The stone angel at the Catholic Church at Kurrajong forever looks over picturesque undulating farmland that seems to roll on forever.


Musing:
By Emily Dickenson
"This world is not conclusion;
A sequel stands beyond,
Invisible, as music,
But positive, as sound.
It beckons and it baffles;
Philosophies don’t know,
And through a riddle, at the last,
Sagacity must go.
To guess it puzzles scholars;
To gain it, men have shown
Contempt of generations,
And crucifixion known."


This is a repost to participate in the Taphophile Tragics meme.  Visit there for a wondrous variety of graveyards.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

The river glideth on his own sweet will

We spent last weekend at Kurrajong which is at the foothills of the Blue Mountains ... quite close to home but with a great gaping valley between us is a longish drive away. After going down the mountains and then turning to climb back up into the hills we encounter the river at the border of the mountains. I have written of the beautiful Nepean River in my Blue Mountains Journal. The interesting thing is that this is the same river but somewhere about here it changes its name to the Hawkesbury and keeps that name as it meanders down to the sea.

Photo: Hawkesbury River, taken from Richmond Bridge

Musing:
Composed upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth
"Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!"

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

The duck

Is this a picture of the duck or the water?

Photo: Duck pond, Botanical Gardens, Sydney


Musing:
The Duck by Ogden Nash
"Behold the duck.
It does not cluck.
A cluck it lacks.
It quacks.
It is specially fond
Of a puddle or pond.
When it dines or sups,
It bottoms ups."

Monday, April 14, 2008

Botanical Gardens

With all the visitors I am not getting much Wayfaring done at the moment so will explore a little more of Sydney before moving onto new places.

The Botanical Gardens have a spectacular location by the sparkling habour, right where the great city of Sydney started.

Photo: Sculptural detail, Botanical Gardens, Sydney

Musing:
From Flower Poem by A.D. Hope
"Not this cut flower but the entire plant
Achieves its miracle from soil and wind,
Rooted in dung, dirt,dead men's bones; the scent
And glory not in themselves an end; the end:
Fresh seeding in some other dirty mind,
The ache of its mysterious event"

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

After the flowers

I think this seed pod is from one of the very showwy grevillia flowers that were blooming at Balls Head Reserve. Its shape is quite lovely.

Monday, April 7, 2008

Fig

Photo: Fig, Balls Head Reserve

Musing:
From Creeper Habit by Les Murray
"On Bennelong Point
a two-dimensional tree
drapes the rock cutting ...

The tree has height and extent
but no roundness. Cramponned in cracks
it branches twine and utter
coated leaves."


Sunday, April 6, 2008

Sydney

We were in Sydney attending a wedding this weekend. On a sparkling bright autumn day by the harbour it is impossible for me to not love this city's heart.

Photo: Sydney Harbour from Balls Head Reserve

Musing:
From Sydney by Geoffrey Moorhouse
"Anthony Trollope came as near as possible to getting it right when he wrote, 'I despair of being able to convey to any reader my own idea of the beauty of Sydney Harbour. I have seen nothing equal to it in the way of land locked sea scenary, nothing second to it ... It is so inexpressably lovely that is makes a man ask himself whether it would not be worth his while to move his household goods to the eastern coast of Australia, in order that he might look at it as long as he can look at anything.'

Trollope wrote that something over one hundred years ago, and I know exactly how he felt. Much has changed in the years between, but not that instant recognition of inexpressible loveliness which man astonishingly, has not yet destroyed."

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Get-away

We ended that trip to the central coast with a night at at quiet country get-away.



Musing:
The Cow
from Robert Louis Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses

"The friendly cow all red and white,
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple-tart.

She wanders lowing here and there,
And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
The pleasant light of day.

And blown by the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers,
She walks among the meadow grass
And eats the meadow flowers."


Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Imperfect

I was thrilled when I saw this field of trees in regimented rows. I imagined myself taking one of those perfect images I've seen in photography books -- everything aligned and disappearing to a perfect vanishing point. Instead I ended up with this imperfection.

Musing:
From The Poems of Our Climate by Wallace Stevens
"Clear water in a brilliant bowl,
Pink and white carnations. The light
In the room more like a snowy air,
Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow
At the end of winter when afternoons return.
Pink and white carnations - one desires
So much more than that ...

There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise."