Manual 365/271 There’s Nothing Poetic At All…

Today, I’ve seen sheep sheltering from the rain behind a tree, mist in the valley and water droplets gathered on a cobweb. Heavy cloud and drab, resting fields. The Little Egret fishing in the stream startled by my approach. I’ve seen struggling horse chestnuts, prematurely browned by an ignorant parasite, dropping their still plump conkers onto the road to be pummeled into mush by passing cars.

I’ve seen steaming pasties and hot coffee served by the smiling face and welcoming smile in the chapel utilised by local volunteers who pride themselves on their community and have faith in their local produce.

I’ve seen the derelict battery farm, cold and empty rather than cold and full.

Scrapped lorries, chalk rivers and passing faces. Littler scattered by arrogant arses.

I’ve seen a Murder of Crows, a controlled stream, the big manor house and the little housing scheme. A new build, an old build, a load of concrete. (I am so desperately trying not to get poetic now!)

But, at the end of the day, I have no shots, nothing (this is really hard because can’t help hunting for rhyme!) Nada, nil, until I look to the window sill and see the brass balloon. I position the light and lay on the floor. Click goes the shutter….

dsc_5892Peace Peeps! x

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