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    The word photography comes from the Greek words 'photo' meaning light and 'graphia' meaning to draw - literally translated 'drawing with light.'


    These blog posts are simply words inspired by my own 'Photo Graphia'...

    'Painting is silent poetry and poetry is painting that speaks'    - Plutarch

    December 2, 2018

    A kiss curl of cloud

    falls across the brow of An Sgùrr

    while bathed in late light

    her slopes turn to suede 

    a soft gradient skirts

    the approach to her climb

    hiding the scramble

    to the nose that defines her…

    November 19, 2018

    ‘Every time we look at a photograph, we are aware, however slightly of the photographer selecting that sight from an infinity of other possible sights... The Photographer’s way of seeing is reflected in his choice of subject… Yet, although every image embodies a way of...

    September 27, 2018

    Between the ramshackle rails

    of a lichen clad gate,

    elliptical beads strung on silk threads

    awaken the colours that rise

    as stillness is broken

    and the silence once muted

    is audibly stolen

    as dawn bares her beauty

    to reward the beholder.

    September 26, 2018

    To the lullaby of turning tides

    as night prepares to shut her eyes

    and day drifts from these shores,

    a net of borrowed light is cast,

    it’s haul a catch of Nature’s art:

    abstract conceits of light and dark...

    September 4, 2018

    Skirting the hills between highland lochs

    through the wild Scotch mist, a muted cloth;

    a weave no clan can claim to hold

    and yet it belongs to the fair attuned.

    The crouching heather weaves its course;

    a soft purple haze, tethered and taught

    whilst rusting bracken, trampled...

    August 24, 2018

    Upon grains of time

    a lone figure sits,

    her Atlantic eyes cast adrift;


    by an introspective tide,

    her reflection caught

    in a salt drenched mist.

    With each ebb and flow

    her breathing slows;

    horizons recede

    as light’s fading glow

    leaves an invisible seam

    between the sky’s...

    January 28, 2018

    I rouse to the sound of staccato rain:

    a crescendo of clarity against un-curtained panes

    that window the wilds from my hut in the hills

    where a vision is nurtured and the hush is distilled.

    Upon a dancing of sea, a fine fret is spun

    from the spindrift of salt Anaile* purpos...

    January 28, 2018

    A hammock of cloud

    sleeps between two wintered peaks

    then rises at dawn.

    November 23, 2017

    When the dandelion clock still told the time

    and the hours hung late on the breeze,

    and the only alarm was the Curlew’s call,

    freedom was bounded by dreams.

    When the hours hung late on a dandelion breeze

    and stones skimmed pools full of sky

    and the old Scots pine called you...

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