designrabrooks

haunted_house on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
Nathalie always did insist the Hammersmith flat was haunted…

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It’s been a while since I’ve posted some of my own film, rather than digital - so here you go…

squeezebox on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
portal // twitter // tumblr // facebook // prints // photography // linkedin // graphics // behance // paris tours

nature’s revenge on Flickr.

One of my tree pictures from the ‘Arboretum’ set is in today’s Guardian. More here.

Via Flickr:
Tree top walk, Kew Gardens, London

portal // twitter // tumblr // facebook // prints // photography // linkedin // graphics // behance // paris tours

soundthat:

untitled by Alexei Kovalev

the girl who could fly on Flickr.

Via Flickr:
portal // twitter // tumblr // facebook // prints // photography // linkedin // graphics // behance // paris tours

silbury hill on Flickr.

A poem that spent 150 years buried in the heart of Silbury Hill in Wiltshire, one of the most enigmatic prehistoric monuments in Europe, was written by a teenage girl, William Wordsworth’s second cousin Emmeline Fisher.

Emmie’s poem was placed in an envelope with the following inscription, on the obverse, in the same hand (hers?) as the poem itself -

Lines on the Opening of
Silbury Hill, written by
Miss Emmeline Fisher,
Daughter of The Reverend William
Fisher, Canon of Salisbury and
Rector of Poulshot in Wiltshire
August 1849.


The poem in the urn:

Suggested by the opening
made in Silbury Hill,
Aug 3rd 1849

Bones of our wild forefathers, O forgive,
If now we pierce the chambers of your rest,
And open your dark pillows to the eye
Of the irreverent Day! Hark, as we move,
Runs no stern whisper through the narrow vault?
Flickers no shape across our torch-light pale,
With backward beckoning arm? No, all is still.
O that it were not! O that sound or sign,
Vision, or legend, or the eagle glance
Of science, could call back thy history lost,
Green Pyramid of the plains, from far-ebbed Time!
O that the winds which kiss thy flowery turf
Could utter how they first beheld thee rise;
When in his toil the jealous Savage paused,
Drew deep his chest, pushed back his yellow hair,
And scanned the growing hill with reverent gaze, -
Or haply, how they gave their fitful pipe
To join the chant prolonged o’er warriors cold. -
Or how the Druid’s mystic robe they swelled;
Or from thy blackened brow on wailing wing
The solemn sacrificial ashes bore,
To strew them where now smiles the yellow corn,
Or where the peasant treads the Churchward path.

Emmeline Fisher (1825-1864)

swordplay on Flickr.

On this ‘royal’ day, how about some princes and a tower?

3 graces on Flickr.

England, dear England
With your lily white skin and rose tinted cheeks
Those dainty hands and strawberry hair
Smelling of dandelion, burdock and weeks
Of rolling in hay, all bonnie and fair

England, dear England
You are my heartland, don’t you see?
All apple orchards and cherry blossom
Tomato plants, cider, funny vicars for tea
Pretty white petticoats and plenty of bosom