The Limbo Connection's photos with the keyword: poem

Looking back; Oh, way back - So long ago now - I would say Without a moment's hesit Ation That I have been fascinated With bus stops for Oh, a long long time. With buses, Less so.

Just another assignment. A Tuesday, I think. A Tuesday in January. Bloody cold in that old Manor House. And the car wouldn’t start. Don’t know how I’ll get back. What’s that? No make up? OK. Let’s get on with it. You stand there. By the window. Look out. Look wistful. Can you do bed hair? That’s nice. Sorry it’s so cold. No heating in these old places. Thank God that’s finished. I didn’t like the look of that chair where they put my clothes. Still, too cold for fleas this weather. I hope. He could have given me a lift. The bus is late. Wonder what I’ll have for dinner tonight. Must get some warmer shoes. They say it’s going to snow.

At this point one place becomes confused with the other; And time slips uncontrollably Until like a badly-driven steam engine It stops abruptly, disconcertingly. And I am here, or there; It scarcely matters, For one is as sublime as the other. Nikon D700 + Micro-Nikkor 55mm f/3.5 AI lens.

Here there are no words, no monuments, no inscriptions, not even a crude carving of a protestation of affection, such statements being reserved for lesser trees in public parks where the knife-carrying classes are not over-taxed by distance, and mud. In this quiet corner the moss goes steadily about its business of covering static casualties with a warm green blanket. The insects scurry noiselessly retrieving and reassembling till satisfied with the outcome of their industry. The autumn leaves cling on to memories of grander days, blown by winds to settle next to new companions, yet no less morose over their condition. The wild garlic pokes through, supplying a confident breath. In time it will conceal the ceaseless rearrangement of death. And the differences betwixt last year and the year before: the great gale when the weak were vanquished and the sturdy tested; and the upheaval of the planting programme of eighty-three, and that afternoon the widow came stealthily to make a little hole for the ashes of her deeply loved and much missed husband, and the child who tripped and bled and cried, and the cuckoo which used to come here but now strangely does not - none of this is recorded. For here there are no words, no monuments, no inscriptions. Lacock Abbey, Wilts. Nikon D2Xs + Tamron Di II SP AF 17-50mm f/2.8 XR LD Aspherical lens.

Photographed with a Canon EOS 40D with a Helios-44 58mm f/2 lens on a short extension tube.