John North

Keep calm and carry on! Day 4 without power in Ivegill, Cumbria after Storm Boelo. But at least we have plenty of good tea to keep our spirits up here at The Herb Farm! theherbfarm.co.uk

Thaw – Edward Thomas

interstellar space the long call and slow answer between the cell walls

One of the joys of taking our theherbfarm.co.uk teas to Shap Farmers' & Makers' Market is being allocated a stall in the library... a good book with my cup of tea @groomb.bsky.social

It suddenly occurred to me, we can talk mental health all we like but we may never see real progress until we can talk mental illness.

reflecting / star / ice

As a long time @lakesstiles.bsky.social lurker, I'm rather nervously offering up this particularly marvellous stile at Helbeck nr Brough

skein of geese flies south. stone stays close to the slow earth— waits another year.

births, marriages, deaths— this season of frost.

buzzard cuts like a billhook through hawk's snobbery

the dying body being held cherry blossom pink --Shinko Tokizane 死に体を抱かれていたり桜いろ　時実新子 Note: 死に体, lit. "dying body," is a sumo term, according to the dictionary, referring to a "falling position from which it is impossible to recover"; it's also a homonym with "I want to die" #senryu #translation

rain. between pebbles, small pools

A kind review of The Way of Tea bhdandme.wordpress.com/2026/07/08/t...

skein of geese flies south. stone stays close to the slow earth— waits another year.

births, marriages, deaths— this season of frost.

buzzard cuts like a billhook through hawk's snobbery

pretending to be alive, the stone writes haiku— a wise stone indeed!

In praise of new moons, cold nights and the short dark days

This summer, quite unexpectedly, as these things always are, we found ourselves battling ill health, including a lengthy hospital stay. But we made it to the other side and autumn! And, as the old song goes, no, we mustn’t forget to say a great big thank you! We're back to work at theherbfarm.co.uk

It's the anticipation of the coldness deep in the skin. Beyond falling leaves: dark night, stars of autumn. Childhood inside a chestnut shell. The smell of a candle singeing the pale woolly flesh of a carved pumpkin. The simple acceptance of darkness, and wind, and rain, and the nights closing in.

long october lane shadowy with ghost parsley half-remembers spring

Kintsugi Aware that my heart is broken — my cat sleeps by my child's side.

Moon sets, crows cry, sky frosts, river maples, fishing fires. The midnight boat is a bell of stars. Here is Hanshan Temple. After Zhang Ji, 8th century Tang dynasty poet 月落烏啼霜滿天 江楓漁火對愁眠 姑蘇城外寒山寺 夜半鐘聲到客船

Kintsugi Aware that my heart is broken — my cat sleeps by my child's side.

Somewhere in the back of my mind: a strong pillar, smooth and silent. Close your eyes. Find it.

Stanley Plumly

Wisdom is the river many drown in

I learned how to find the new moon by looking for the circular absence of stars. I learned God’s true language is only silence and breath. My name is Kazim. Which means patience. I know how to wait. #poem excerpt: Kazim Ali #art Rene Magritte #resist

This looks well worth a trip to Penrith Playhouse #Cumbria!

kitchen after dark the distant moon still gilding the cheeks of apples

Top Halloween film recommendation: The Halloween Tree (1993), narrated by the writer Ray Bradbury

Reading @robertwrighter.bsky.social's Why Buddhism is True at 4am, pretty life-saving

late evening sky more questions than stars #dailyhaikuprompt #evening

grey heron rising wingbeaten waves of white mist hiding the long hill

Cassia moon. Autumn dew. Silk too thin, but still— she bears it. Plays her guzheng. Does not sleep. After Wang Wei, 8th Century Tang dynasty poet 桂魄初生秋露微 輕羅已薄未更衣 銀箏夜久殷勤弄 心怯空房不忍歸

Two silences meet. Dust motes. We are living the same prayer, you and I, together floating apart, remembering, forgetting— another parting kiss. In lightness we become never and forever. There is a space our souls call home; it is a smile in the sunlight. Something understood.

Thalassophobe, afraid of the ocean — your own depths.

Moon sets, crows cry, sky frosts, river maples, fishing fires. The midnight boat is a bell of stars. Here is Hanshan Temple. After Zhang Ji, 8th century Tang dynasty poet 月落烏啼霜滿天 江楓漁火對愁眠 姑蘇城外寒山寺 夜半鐘聲到客船

By the hearth space, light, shadow, the air itself becomes a bow drawn across a fiddle— sing wind, rain and blood, the Pennines themselves shudder beneath the clouds of this curse's making.

Up on the fells beyond the heather there is sky grey as an auld devil — the mist.

October, cold – you run your fingers along the pages of the aged Bible's folichor crisp as first frost. You'll pray before the end, the way leaves inevitably gather by the roads and darkness stretches into the day. Christ, how short a year is. The streetlamp's golden light through the stained glass.

York-born poet W.H. Auden died on this day 1973 (photo by Jane Bown). On former lead mines of the north Pennines: In Rookhope I was first aware Of Self and Not-Self, Death and Dread: There I dropped pebbles, listened, heard The reservoir of darkness stirred.

The silence takes shape. Alone you become word.

this full moon our beautiful, lunatic sexualities