Writer, Photographer
Photos by S.W. Cosgrove
We were amongst the rhododendrons. There was something bewildering, even shocking, about the suddenness of their discovery. The woods had not prepared me for them. They startled me with their crimson faces, massed one upon the other in incredible profusion, showing no leaf, no twig, nothing but the slaughterhouse red, luscious and fantastic, unlike any rhododendron plant I had seen before.
― Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?
by Ralph Waldo Emerson
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool.
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
Photo and words by S.W. Cosgrove
Found in the bottom of a box, a faded photo from the late 20th century reminds me….
I’m thankful for the good fortune of being to the farm born
to know the everyday miracles of life and the daily wisdom of death
the smell of fresh turned earth
clover meadows washed in spring rains
a lively horse and a smart dog
the summer sun setting late through the oak trees around the screen porch
dandelion wine from a chipped water glass
and chokecherry preserves on fresh baked bread….
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
The eyes indicate the antiquity of the soul.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
The edge of the sea is a strange and beautiful place.
~ Rachel Carson
Marine air moving to shore from the mighty Pacific Ocean at Moclips Beach, Washington, USA.
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
When anxious, uneasy, and bad thoughts come, I go to the sea, and the sea drowns them out with its great wide sounds, cleanses me with its noise, and imposes a rhythm upon everything in me that is bewildered and confused.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
We return to the sea, from whence we came
It is our primordial home
Photos by S.W. Cosgrove
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
These landscapes of water and reflection are an obsession.
– Claude Monet
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
Cattails in the snow on a frozen pond
Photos by S.W. Cosgrove
Jervis Inlet runs 55 mi (89 km) from its head at the mouth of the Skwawka River to its opening into the Strait of Georgia near Texada Island. It is one of the principal inlets of the British Columbia Coast, about 59 mi (95 km) northwest of Vancouver, and the third of such inlets north of the 49th parallel, the first of which is Burrard Inlet, Vancouver’s harbor.
It is the deepest fjord on the British Columbia coast with a maximum depth of 670 m (2,200 ft).
The inlet is made up of three arms or reaches:
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
While some men believe in the infinite, some ponds will be thought to be bottomless.
~Henry David Thoreau
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
An old silent pond…
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.
― Matsuo Bashō
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
One way or another, all the bridges between that time and this one have been burned. Time’s a reach, too, you know, just like the one that lies between the islands and the mainland, but the only ferry that can cross it is memory, and that’s like a ghost-ship – if you want it to disappear, after awhile it will.
― Stephen King
Words and photo by S.W. Cosgrove
Wind from the west
sketches lines in sand on the beach;
to be erased with the next high tide.
As will our moments, days, lives;
only memories and shadows remain.
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
Words and photo by S.W. Cosgrove
Darkness comes early
The sun struggles to break through
Obscured by sea clouds
Words and photo by S.W. Cosgrove
Wind and sand create waves
erasing the footprints we leave
and the castles we build with our lives.
Only memories remain
until they, too…vanish.
Photo by S.W. Cosgrove
A faded memory from a box of old photos. 1973. From the roof of our hotel.
The next day we sailed from New York Harbor aboard an Italian oceanliner bound for Cannes.
We returned to NYC the next year.
The Twin Towers were still there. We thought they always would be.
How foolish.
SW COSGROVE 