Friday, August 1, 2008

Winter Leaves


As seen in the day of West gone by, Wild
When smoke was the language, the voice
Upwards they would spiral, those words from a child
Or tribesman, or warrior, their choice

This was then their way, and hidden to most
Outsiders, they read n'er it's thought
This was then their anchor, their word of the ghost
For battle and wars when once fought.

Backlit on Blue:

Shoot into the sun and capture the shade
Post process next in that dark blue
Enhance for the colours, their presence they've made
Slight sharpen, job's done, adieu.

Bleedin' Blades:


Jeroen said...

Very nice mate, very nice. Both poetry and the pics

Mandela said...

Photographer, poet, all round wit, is there no start to your talents?

Photo_Muse said...

thank you kindly guys

the Muse, himself

Muses of things photographic, and of life,seen by all each day.