I seem to like the night...daytime you’ll see me sleep in till afternoon (2-3 if I’m the given the chance) night time I’m wide eyed and bushy tailed, alert and performing my best, not to say I’m not functional during the day; just that come nightfall I seem to want to interact with my world a little bit more...sun can make me grumpy and hot weather makes my brain tick...ha here like a superhero I bare my kryptonite weaknesses, simple physical weaknesses, that can be played against me...icy chills is what I like, I enjoy the bite and prickle upon the skin and the white breath masking the face, the element of darkness is so alluring, it makes me tingle thinking about it, how hiding under the silver luminosity is ravishingly captivating, titillating upon the skin, the night spell used so that imagination isn’t wasted on spotting things spoilt and exposed by sunlight, exploited of its hidden talents, its inner beauty that can vary vast or be elfin in effect...even small difference won’t be noticed and what way to feel special right?

Night is precious because like Terry Pratchett’s character Mort (deaths apprentice) whose description during a moment of his life theories crusade...wondered why night had to be dark, that people couldn’t see anything at night and should need light, like in the day, but then that would defeat some point he thought (like he didn’t get why peoples teeth had to be white)...see night offers such rarity, of course it comes everyday (Serbia and what not excluded some parts of the year)but what can you really find in the obscurity of its unlit domain of each period of day, if you open your eyes wide enough, the sneaky, the creepy and the crawlies emerge and the silence can be watched. What seems distant fantasy is only the surreal mind frame, things only dreamed come to life in the grey light... colour is deafened and the dream like reality is pleasant and wanted more and more.

Night time is gorgeous for the twinkles of the sky and our orbiting moon rips through the purest of shadows, not in sudden open view but subtle and really quite gentle...I truly do love the night because I am comfortable with myself and my surroundings and can feel hidden at any given moment due the superb chance of darkness.


By Neil creek

Night Sky over the Church of the Good Shepherd . . .

This photo was taken the night before the panorama of the church you can see here on this site. The weather that day had been unseasonably windy, to the point that the waves on Lake Tekapo even had whitecaps. This near gale-force wind was coming right off the glaciers and cut right through you. It was into this weather that I ventured out in the pitch black night under the spectacular night sky to capture some photos of the Church of the Good Shepherd by starlight.

Rugged up, bare handed, with tripod and kit bag, I looked around for a good spot, and fought the howling winds. I don’t have a cable release and I quickly discovered that I needed more than the maximum 30 seconds shutter speed. I spent the next half hour sitting by the tripod as low as it would go for stability, finger holding down the shutter while I took shot after shot counting to 120 or 240 seconds, trying not to move during the exposure. For fear of getting more exposure than the sensor, I came inside after half an hour. I only got this one decent photo, but it was worth it. It was this experience that lead me to buy a wireless remote shutter release.

Horses- Edwin Muir

haha...funny!!!


The poem screams at me!!!
I love its vocab, its pace, its rhythm...when I think about doing a LAMDA exam...this is what I feel would make me pass with flying colours...
I want to be the horses, in fact the poem makes me believe it...
Their on going might and frightening hulk that makes us humans(powerful in comparison)miniature and feeble.
In a way it expresses how long suffering the horses are, working non stop leaving a 'furrow' behind as their tracks
without complaint, but still obvious to the eye, their body language baring anger. terrifying, but not acted upon, composure kept

here it is...
HORSES

Those lumbering horses in the steady plough,
On the bare field - I wonder why, just now,
They seemed terrible, so wild and strange,
Like magic power on the stony grange.

Perhaps some childish hour has come again,
When I watched fearful, through the blackening rain,
Their hooves like pistons in an ancient mill
Move up and down, yet seem as standing still.

Their conquering hooves which trod the stubble down
Were ritual that turned the field to brown,
And their great hulks were seraphim of gold,
Or mute ecstatic monsters on the mould.

And oh the rapture, when, one furrow done,
They marched broad-breasted to the sinking sun!
The light flowed off their bossy sides in flakes;
The furrows rolled behind like struggling snakes.

But when at dusk with the streaming nostrils home
They came, they seemed gigantic in the gloam,
And warm and glowing with mysterious fire
That lit their smouldering bodies in the mire.

Their eyes as brilliant and as wide as night
Gleamed with a cruel apocalyptic light.
Their manes the leaping ire of the wind
Lifted with rage invisible and blind.

Ah, now it fades! It fades! and I must pine
Again for that dread country crystalline,
Where the black field and the still-standing tree
Were bright and fearful presences to me.