raining day, the pram hood smelled. gabardine.

blue white edging patterned              greek style.

sound of water falling,                 puddled apron,

bread in damp paper,         taste of crust corner.

springy, bouncing down green road, my brother

weighting.                                           the other end.

a blanket to pick fluff

&

straps to bind me.

later came other fragments, the whisper of sausages for tea, the promise of marmite,

fragile gas mantles to repace night time candles.

my brothers.

sbm.

Long time readers will know that I’m an avid fan of Ansel Adams. Sitting on my desk right now is a book called “Ansel Adams 400 Photographs”,  I’ve read it cover to cover, or to be more accurate, I’ve looked at every one of the 400 photographs included in the book. Several times over.

I can’t verbalize the internal meaning of pictures whatsoever. Some of my friends can at very mystical levels, but I prefer to say that, if I feel something strongly, I would make a photograph, that would be the equivalent of what I saw and felt. – Ansel Adams

I’m not at the mystical level. for me, nearly all of the photographs show a unique style and technical mastery, coupled with an amazing sense of composition.

So you might be asking “what’s this got to do with friends”? The answer is nothing and here’s the thing. I…