7 days, poems & photography. Oct 6
I apologise to the bird fidgeting,
not happy, not relaxed, waiting
to dry its wings and for me
to finish taking photographs.
The dragon basking in the sun
on the river edge is composed,
breathing steadily while keeping
an eye on me. I have a memory of newts.
If photography is to be discussed on a serious level it must be described in relation to death. It’s true that a photograph is a witness, but a witness of something that is no more. Roland Barthes, The Grain of the Voice, trans. Linda Coverdale, New York: Hill and Wang, 1985.