To the south a fire cloud is billowing, yet so faraway that the source remains unseen
The artist would make a better job of this than my words have ever conjured; my friend, the photographer, he would have captured both the essence of the scene, and the escarpments of my mood in its reflection
I am tempted to leave it at that - to know when one is beaten is no bad thing is it?
The problem though is that the artist and the photographer were not present, they never are, and they most likely never will be
I will persevere, recollecting my night overlooking Lyme Regis promenade when I innocently professed about the way the writer has more tools, at his elbow, than either the picture taker or the picture maker; right now I am a little unsure about my poem Now There Is No Horizon; for perhaps I have gone beyond
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