g u n n y

Midwinter spring is its own season/ Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,/ Suspended in time, between pole and tropic./ When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,/ The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,/ In windless cold that is the heart's heat,/ Reflecting in a watery mirror/ A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
T S Eliot, Little Gidding, Four Quartets

Silent sentinels in an alien landscape, salt lies gathered in gunny sacks, gathered by a Bedu couple we came across, the only sign of life from horizon to horizon.

< Previous   Next >



© 2001–2008 p i n a k i