Glastonbury Tor

  • Erika Baarova 11y

    splendid, splendid
  • Miss K 11y

    Wow Julius. Exactly how many Close Encounters have you experienced??
  • Unpossible PRO 11y

    I'm not sure. I think they wipe my brain after each one.
  • Edwinek 10y

    Wow! IR?
  • M. Bonilla 10y

    !!! its nearly a cocteau film.
  • Unpossible PRO 10y

    To answer Edwinek's question, this picture was taken with conventional black and white film.
  • Steve Bailey PRO 10y

    Greta, great photo, Mr U. Gladstonbury Tor is a wonderful place, very mystical - but it never quite looked like this when I was there...
  • liliths_nymph 10y

    I love the Tor.

    And the man I love lives right near it.
  • Bugarse 9y

  • Michael 9y

    Snowflakes tapping on the windowpane
    evoking emotions
    trapped inside old memories like photographs
    this is a night for stories
    and on a night like this
    she is the only story

    The moon shines through the leafless branches
    reflecting like a million diamond facets
    from the crystals of snow
    lifting the illusion of isolation
    one feels naturally in the cold air.
    Stars, like white moths, fill the sky in that
    moment before they transform into
    infinite snowflakes. Winter has come.

    The minstrel shivers and stokes his fire
    though he is already aflame with the
    warming ardor of love. Her village is close
    and as he strums his lyre her name
    resonates in the poet's songs.

    I tell this story for she is not here
    and shrouded in my memories of her
    I am loath to do else than sing her song.

    Four thousands years ago, from this primal
    woodscape rose the moon goddess
    and she walked the land
    past the earthfresh meadow where
    one day I would take you
    lie with you in the spring,
    on that fragrant ground
    your aroma mingling with
    that of the fertile loam
    the singular lingering bit of
    geomancy stirring
    between us and we wrestle
    like Creiddyladd and Gwythr
    at first groping and eager
    but learning with each touch
    those places that please
    and we meld, liquid silver
    and molten gold into one ring.

    The minstrel weaves his seductive song
    and they consummate their love
    but as he must, he leaves,
    promising swift return.

    Love suspended as fate interferes
    a common theme of both myth
    and modernity, but its abundance
    offers me no solace on this
    foggy, snowy night.

    Daybreak, and he makes her village
    but she, of course, is gone. Not one
    offers assistance, not one but the
    withered witch, her hut in the
    hazel wood. "Gone, she is, to
    Avalon, a priestess now, not
    your love." He protests, and
    the fire of his passions melts
    for an instant the witch's frozen
    heart, stone all those years
    since her own love disappeared.

    So he sets off, her instructions fresh
    "On the day Spring opens her first rose,
    carry a branch of Avalon's tree with you
    silver, its white blossoms promising golden fruit
    carry it across the isle of glass,
    seeing with otherworldly sight
    and you will meet her again."
    So he makes his way there.

    Here, but not only here, the
    veil between worlds is thin
    and we dance across it like
    waterbugs skittering on the
    surface of an old well
    tendrils of flame from my fire
    reflected in the pool like
    the light of your eye,
    your beauty in the mirror
    and I remember all this
    though it is raining and
    all I can see in the pool
    are the rippling reflections
    of the tree's bare branches

    It rises from a scar on the earth
    on the coldest of winter days
    in advance of the snowstorm
    and is recorded by a lone
    watcher, fulfilling surveillance duty
    high above at the top of the ancient tor.
    Some days it manifests as a light mist,
    others as a thick fog shrouding all
    that is real as that brook flowing through a vale
    teeming with silver fingerlings,
    spawn of a bounteous spring
    winnowed one by one, like the fair maidens
    in the village, until only the wise trout remains,
    perhaps the one caught by Aengus, that
    singular maiden who outlasts the others.

    But on that Spring day, the poet faded
    easily through the soft veil, branch
    in hand, calling softly her name,
    answered only by a child's laughter in the wind.
    And he waited, patiently for his love
    until the branch took root and he
    became the tree.

    I know we plucked the golden apple
    from the poet's tree, that day beneath
    Autumn's sun, we tasted the silver
    sweet flesh beneath the golden skin.
    We dreamed the dream of the
    lovelorn poet and his love, mother
    now, priestess serving her goddess.

    One appleseed planted in the light of the full moon
    germinates, grows, marks the sacred spot
    on the body of the goddess,
    blossoms into that one tree

    and as you walk through the orchard
    looking for that tree-
    planted from seeds carried from Glastonbury-
    silvered with age, wizened by the
    wind of many icy winters,
    and as the yellow orange sky
    presages imminent dawn
    and your rosy cheeks are visible
    behind the clouds of your breath
    you find your quarry and
    fall on your knees before its trunk
    feeling again my first kiss on your lips.
  • Dave 8y

    This image has been added to the Flickr Museum for making explore's top 25. Kudos!You can check it out here...
  • Ronald 8y

    Hi, I am an admin for a group called Landmarks around the world, and I discovered this great shot in Glastonbury, United Kingdom. We love to have your photo added to the group.
  • Unpossible PRO 8y

    Hi WorldFlickr. Thanks for the invitation. I've added the picture to the group.
  • Unpossible PRO 8y

    Sorry Kemal, I missed your comment somehow.

    I stopped posting to the Contax G site when I started taking digital pictures. I miss using the G2. I may well pick it up again soon.
  • quietloner PRO 7y

    That's fantastic. That's exactly how I see the tor with my 'third' eye!
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Taken on January 10, 2005
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