The world is from the beginning In a woman’s arms; She is the beginning of each beginning In an ebb and flow, unending mystery. Say that you love her, even hate her, But never say her mystery is yours. You may touch upon it, at best, Be captivated by its spell, Rail against that mystery, Betray all for it, Heart and home, faith and fatherland, All that you hold dear, Fades before a woman’s wonder. Kingdoms fall and nations go to war, A thousand ships have sailed for her face, The strong have been reduced by her, The weak with her are strong as strong could be. Cowards rise to heroism, Brave men falter, The noble are ignoble, And wretched beings are giants, Because of a woman’s mystery. No book or wise old being Can comprehend it, Nor strong brave youth master it, And when you think you’ve conquered it, ‘Tis you that has been conquered. A mystery beyond time and space Has an eternal quality, Source of all we are, will ever be, So love her, like her, hate her But be not fooled. Think what you may of a simple country lass or queen You, dear man, shall never know Nor fathom Her unfathomable mystery, Nor, perhaps, will she!
END
Tom Ryan “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
Pictured yesterday on the Yellow Lough Road (R659) just outside Holycross, Thurles, Co. Tipperary. Photo: G. Willoughby.
Wildflower.
Written by Clinton Arneson
The wildflower… bred by no one, uncultivated; raised hard, raised rough. No glass pane to shield you, nor tender hand revealed you, standing all the sweeter ‘gainst the grass. There may be some the fairer, though none so brave to dare her, wild, wild flower in the wind. END
“There, on stems waving in the air on a warm gentle breeze, Buttercups, ebb and flow like restless tides on rolling seas”
[Extract from the poem ‘Sun-Kissed Flowers‘, by Jenna Logan]
The hairy leaved bright yellow field Buttercups growing on the west bank of the river Suir presently, East on Emmet Street, are indeed quite striking. But soon their petals will fall, leaving behind green spiky fruit, reminiscent of tiny chestnuts.
View on Sunday last, June 13th, east on Emmet Street, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
Nowadays the younger generation are more fascinated by their mobile phone screens, rather than playing the childhood game of holding a buttercup under your chin to see if you like butter. As children adults had us believe that the colour of the flowers eaten by cows somehow got into the milk giving rise to the production of yellow farmer’s butter.
Buttercups will grow anywhere and have in the past been used to treat rheumatism and fevers. The plants flowers contain a chemical ‘Ranunculin’, which, when the plant is broken, crushed or chewed, changes to the toxin called ‘Protoanemonin’.
Protoanemonin is a bitter-tasting oil that irritates the mucous membranes of the gastrointestinal tract, and is poisonous to horses, cats, and dogs. However, they generally don’t pose any real threat, because the toxin’s bitter taste limits the amount any animal will eat.
When dried these toxins which are part of the Buttercups makeup become harmless and so are edible for animals when found in dried hay.
With huge “Thank You” to Catherine Fogarty, Rona Sorrell, Una and David Crowley, Mary Joe Fanning, Eamonn Medley and Eamonn Mason and indeed all who have contributed their voluntary service to this area of Thurles.
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