When the sun finally found a place to pose, it left behind its labyrinth of dark searching. You’d think the trail – less clean and clear-cut in aspect than that resting place – would be what’s remembered, but giving an appearance of even reflected light is the deceit we are expected to buy into. Those undulations are not enough to trip things up: waves smoothing over the worst in their forced complicity. How the blue looks like it may have been added later. There is a cock and balls in there, nature’s graffiti as a satire for incredulity.
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Mike Ferguson