Walking on there is little noise apart from startled river bank birds chattering a warning and the drip of moisture from high, dew sodden branches. As the light increases the fog seems to intensify. A tripod moment here is disappointing; walking inland the metal frame of an old hay shed reveals itself. A dog walker shouts a “Good Morning”, a lone rower, rear red light flashing, gracefully scoots by dipping oars leaving complex ripples in the water. In search of a spot of colour amongst the mono-chromatic landscape a solitary leaf is snapped, resting on a little concrete arch of a bridge. The shots of yellow and white mould spreading over a dead tree trunk are less successful, the cold-numbed fingers unable to locate just the right focus point even with a spread of f-stops. The results are rejected for this little photo-essay. Other photos though are more pleasingm as was the steaming cup of coffee on my return home a good two hours later. The fog remains.
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