creature, beginning, sweet

Going back to the time when I was photographing things discarded in the street, which seemed to be assuming a status beyond their means, I come across the photo of an abandoned umbrella that looks as though it is resting after a long crawl.

Looking into a basement window, I see a man sitting at a table in his shirt sleeves. He is talking into a telephone. He is on the edge of a world with whom he is trying to communicate.  Just as  there is always something beginning for everyone, everywhere, all the time, something is beginning for him, here and now. For him, and for me, a story about him.

The sweet peas, which I have been cutting throughout the summer,  can no longer boast  the long stems and  self-regarding flowers of their early days. But they are none the worse for that. They smell as sweet and their delicate colours and butterfly shapes, though smaller,  remain untainted and undistorted. In a small vase, their stems bending and twisting over the rim,  look as good, perhaps better, than their confectioned predecessors, beloved of florists and flower arrangers.