|The big house|
My room was very comfortable with a writing desk overlooking the lake, a large window that opened out wide so that I felt I was out of doors, a large fireplace with pictures of the Guthrie family and every morning early I would see a hare or a deer sauntering through the shrubbery, thats the thing, you sit down to write and one is distracted too by the beauty of the lake as the misty rain often starts at the far edge of the lake and takes it's time before reaching the window. A full bookcase with every poet one could think of there at my disposal to read, and read I did, often late into the night with no sounds except the creaking of the old floors cooling down. No TV, phones or radios, complete peace. I was thankfull for the time to gather another collection and get it into some order before publishing it although there is still editing to be done at least the bones are there.
Mrs Warbrigg. She was a companion to Lady Guthrie, stories of her roaming the corridors made me weary at first, I stayed in her room at the top of the house once and every creak I heard I swore it was her, but no, it was just the sound of a cooling floor, I think....
|Tyrone Guthrie bust.|
|The beautiful garden|
|A view out to the forest and lake.|
|Thanks to all the staff including,|
Patricia Donlon Director (resident)
Mary Clerkin Finance Officer
Ingrid Adams Resources Manager
for their warmth of welcome.
The big house greets with an air of mystery,
petitioning to the gods a poem or song
to touch all our yesterdays.
The lake pretends to scowl at night and
wraps the waiting horizon in thought.
The ruthless breeze is laden with insight.
Songs find their way through the air.
The hearth inherits the fallen spruce,
whilst artists gather their cares.
Spoken signals gather like crochet,
fermenting works that ooze out in dreams,
and filter into daylight
(c) Aine Mac Aodha
|The big house as evening falls.|