by Steve Tanham
Returning home after a long trip, I am always taken by the sheer ‘energy’ in a British landscape. It may be adversarial with cold and rain, but it shakes the soul into a different kind of wakefulness. The leaf-stripped trees are the most potent symbol of this for me. There, framed in total contrast, are living symbols of growth, of organic process, of four … Read More The love of Winter trees
by Steve Tanham
Even from a distance, it separates itself from the landscape that gave it birth. After two hundred million years, its many faces continue to laugh at the sky – in the defiant way that large rocks often do… or perhaps it is long-lost love… Its act of separation is not one of colour, for the hues are not dissimilar to those around it on … Read More Remarkable Rocks
by Steve Tanham
It could equally well be titled ‘The dark art of departure’, I suppose, but, in this case, it‘s not the act but the leaving which is dark… At the time of writing, we are about to leave Sydney, aboard a cruise ship: the Royal Caribbean ‘Solstice’. We’ve never been on a cruise ship before. It is only happening because two years ago, we booked … Read More The Art of Dark Departure
by Steve Tanham
I take a lot of photographs, and like to share the ones that move me the most. Looking back on these, there is a theme: they are, more often than not, a moment of natural beauty, defined by light on landscape, which could only be captured by camera or poem… so, here, for my less formal ‘Tuesday slot’, is picture and poem. Twin Guardians … Read More Ungrasped
by Steve Tanham
Sydney We are having breakfast at Charlie’s Foodamalloo, across the street from our hotel; the Ovolo. It’s a wonderful greasy spoon and reputed to be one of the best places for breakfast in Sydney – if you don’t mind the simple interior and the washed but stickily-aged wood and tiled tables. The Ovolo is located on the redeveloped old giant wharf at Woolloomooloo. The … Read More Antipodean Fragments – Foodoomooloo…
by Steve Tanham
The Lune Valley is always worth exploring. The river Lune rises as a stream near Ravenstone Dale, Cumbria, and gathers momentum and volume as it winds towards the sea at Lancaster and its one time port, Glasson Dock. Devil’s Bridge, above, is, perhaps its most famous landmark, and was once the main highway between Yorkshire and the north Lancashire region – prior to the … Read More A walk with dogs, the Lune and St Michael
by Steve Tanham
I am in a hotel room in Singapore. It’s 05.02 and I’ve been awake for three hours. Beside me, my wife, Bernie, has also give up trying to sleep and is sitting up drinking the tea I have just made. Having failed to sleep for most of the night, she has joined me in a plan to take an early breakfast as soon as … Read More Spaceships and Chewing Gum
by Steve Tanham
For fifty years I sought you Beneath an ashen tree And then at last I caught you Hiding behind me ➰ What jests your lips had whispered As I darted too and fro Till I lay down at the wayside With nowhere else to go ➰ Quiet, your fingers touched me Bidding stillness in their grace Made soft with love the journey By turning … Read More For fifty years I sought you…
by Steve Tanham
The hallowed ‘een The in-between The edge of life And death unseen ©Stephen Tanham Image from a shop in Kirkby Lonsdale.
by Steve Tanham
Just before time was sliced and diced So that the evenings could be darker You gathered up your colour And threw it in my face Laughing Until I laughed back… © Stephen Tanham
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by Steve Tanham
Out of a hidden fear, we seldom examine our personal origins – this sense of ‘me’. Yet, if we let go that fear, the journey can teach us so much, and leave us with an emotion of deep belonging. We can explore this with a meditation, rather than the intellect; if you’d like a little journey? Be quiet and become conscious that our everyday … Read More The Origin of Me
by Steve Tanham
If you belonged to a species that regularly threw itself off a cliff, you’d expect that species – or that tribe – to die out pretty quickly… Let’s imagine that there was an annual contest of head-beating with sticks, and the losers – those left alive – were honour bound to march or stagger to the cliff-top and mumble a ceremonial farewell before casting … Read More The Makers of Fine Sticks
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