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 picture.  

It would tell me that it had just rained and that the stones were ancient.  

And that moss grew in the crevices.  

And it would tell me that there was the hint of a storm on the horizon, 

Of the heath on the hills, 

Of time.

And what of my other senses?   Could I hear the sound of a lonely wind that wrapped its fingers around the statue?  

What of the sound that is the rattle of gravel as a single visitor comes to pay homage?  The sound of iron upon stone as an old door clangs. 

And perhaps, if I listen carefully, there is the cry of a hawk from a nearby tree before it takes to the air.

And what of the fingers? 

A shame this photograph could not be felt.  The texture of that stone – so cold and rough, and perhaps a bit wet.  

Faded words that can be traced, engraved upon the casket.  

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

For 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 its 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.  And as she gasps in pleasure when he plunges inside of her, the cry of a circling hawk echoes 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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