We're always coming back to language; the easiest topic for words is words.
The world is surprising, yet life is not easy, yet the days are unending. I shoot words at the surfaces;
until they're pitted with words, until I can't see my face in them.
Breath of life, fallen snow: and the roof-lines rising as we walk,
overtaking each other, like planets variously near or fast,
the Brunel Tower shifting from left to right and the trees disappearing to left, or right,
the roof-lines rising finally to the zenith and suddenly past, like music played backwards.
So much is zeroed when we breathe and march...
But what about the moss? or the wind-ruffled grass in the headlights, waiting to leave?
Surprising: the shadow of railings on a bridge, the light-source above,
and therefore bent down the wall like banisters.
Surprising, the shadows in the headlights coming along the street,
sliding sideways, as if to a bedroom.
Or the pedestrian's shadow, sliding the other way,
and bolting into a crevice.
[Photos from a frosty Sussex garden, 25th Feb 2016]