Dinesh's photos with the keyword: Frodsham

So it is with time. Whenever we talk about it, we do so in terms of something lesser. We find or lose time, like a set of keys; we save and spend it, like money. Time creeps, crawls, flies, flees, flows, and stands still; it is abundant of scarce; it weighs on us with palpable heft. Bells toll for a ‘long’ or ‘short’ time, as if their sound could be measured with a ruler. Childhood recedes, deadlines loom. The contemporary philosophers George Lakoff and Mark Johnson have proposed a thought experiment: take a moment and try to address time strictly in its own terms, stripping any metaphor. You’ll be left empty-handed. “Would time still be time for us if we could not ‘waste’ or ‘budget’ it? They wonder. “We think not” xii Forward

Frodsham is a market town, civil parish and electoral ward in the unitary authority of Cheshire West and Chester and the ceremonial county of Cheshire, England. Its population was 8,982 in 2001, increasing to 9,077 at the 2011 Census. Wikipedia Population: 9,077 (2011) Dialling code: 01928

Four Season room

I believe the future is only the past again, entered through another gate. ~ Arthur Wing Pinero

If a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, what is the significance of a clean desk? ~ Laurence J. Peter

A pleasant peasant pheasant plucker plucks a pleasant pheasant

Don't ever take a fence down until you know why it was put up . ~ Robert Frost

Just as I wonder whether it's going to die, the orchid blossoms and I can't explain why it moves my heart, why such pleasure comes from one small bud on a long spindly stem, one blood red gold flower opening at mid-summer, tiny, perfect in its hour. Even to a white- haired craggy poet, it's purely erotic, pistil and stamen, pollen, dew of the world, a spoonful of earth, and water. Erotic because there's death at the heart of birth, drama in those old sunrise prisms in wet cedar boughs, deepest mystery in washing evening dishes or teasing my wife, who grows, yes, more beautiful because one of us will die. - "Orchid flower" ~ Sam Hamill

BREATHLESS, we flung us on the windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass. You said, “Through glory and ecstasy we pass; Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still, When we are old, are old.…” “And when we die All’s over that is ours; and life burns on Through other lovers, other lips,” said I, —“Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!” Excerpt: "The Hill" ~ Rupert Brooke (1887–1915).

............................ I said that the leaf may destory the bud; what's fertile falls in fallow soil--a dud; that on the flat field, the unshadowed plain nature spills the seeds of trees in vain. I sit by the window. Hands lock my knees. My heavy shadow's my squat company. My song was out of tune, my voice was cracked, but at least no chorus can ever sing it back. That talk like this reaps no reward bewilders no one--no one's legs rest on my sholders. I sit by the window in the dark. Like an express, the waves behind the wavelike curtain crash. Excerpt: "I sit by the window" ~ Joseph Brodsky

Some day, I think, there will be people enough In Froxfield to pick all the blackberries Out of the hedges of Green Lane, the straight Broad lane where now September hides herself In bracken and blackberry, harebell and dwarf gorse. To-day, where yesterday a hundred sheep Were nibbling, halcyon bells shake to the sway Of waters that no vessel ever sailed ... It is a kind of spring: the chaffinch tries His song. For heat it is like summer too. This might be winter's quiet. While the glint Of hollies dark in the swollen hedges lasts - One mile - and those bells ring, little I know Or heed if time be still the same, until The lane ends and once more all is the same. ~ Edward Thomas