An arch, old stones, granite boulders.  

It is a shame you cannot smell a photograph, for that would tell me so much more than the image.  

It would tell me that it had just rained and that the stones were ancient.  
That moss grew in the crevices.  

It would tell me there was the hint of a storm on the horizon, 
Of heath on the hills, 
Of time.

What of my other senses?

Could I hear the sound of a lonely wind as it wrapped its fingers around a statue?  
The sound that was the rattle of gravel as a single visitor came to pay homage.  
Iron upon stone as an old door clanged shut. 

Perhaps, if I listened carefully, the cry of a hawk in a nearby tree before it took to the air.

And what of my fingers? 

A shame this photograph cannot be felt.  

The texture of that stone, so cold and rough, perhaps a bit wet.  
Faded words to be traced, engraved upon the casket.  

The smooth cold of the remaining windows, and the rough grooves where they sat.  
Embedded for eternity.

It is true; a photo is only two dimensions and one sense. And even with that, 
We do not know what lurks just beyond the frame.

Tucked beneath the eaves, leaning against that cold rough stone is a pair of lovers. She feels the chill against her back, as she does his warmth against her chest.

As he breathes in her perfume, he catches a scent of the ancient stones and mossy cracks.  
As she gasps in pleasure when he plunges inside of her, she hears the cry of a circling hawk echoing in her ears.

True, a photograph is only two dimensions and one sense.  
And though it is worth a thousand words, it is not nearly enough.

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