Moving through the frame like a memory, half-remembered, the wet pavement bakes in the over-warm summer’s day, her white dress whispering against the wind like a ghost, thickening with history.
Even standing still, she feels like a memory deciding whether to stay or fade, the deeper the mist goes when your train is finally about to carry onto where you are heading next,
a mystery suspended between departure and whatever waits beyond the fog, a doorway into another world standing at the edge of the stairs inviting nobody but the pair of you into it.
(First of hopefully a new series with artist/photographer Emily M Foster (https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61576642059394) with me writing some prose (maybe poetry) as a reaction to her work.
