WPC: Beneath Your Feet

I love the weekly


mainly because I get to rave on and it’s all legal. (Showcases some snaps, too …)


underfoot is this one  taken in Queens Park on a cold and frosty morning—

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—when the crunchy frosty bits were turning into soggy wet bits. All very complicated but I’m sure they know what they’re doing, underfoot.


cometh the stream, or canal, or whatever other name they give to this lump of flowing water. Not strictly beneath my feet—more like beneath but out in front a bit (it was the reflection that triggered my reflections anyway) …

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… is that Serenity, or what?


last summer that I lay upon the grassy sward in front of the Olde Tennis Club? And took several shots, of which this one alone best captured the defunct essence of the out-of-favour tennis courts—in their heyday alive with the sounds of happy people banging their balls back and forth across the nets, and possibly the gurgle of pink gins and/or cold beers with hot crumpet afterwards—


—alas, no more. To lie upon the grassy sward now is to invite being reaped or otherwise run over by demented bulldozers and herds of workmen with huge tools. Not good.

I caught this one (below) a week or two ago before I was dropped in my tracks by the worst flu bug that ever graced a human disaster zone; and I imagine that to go back there now would be to lay a sensitive soul open to the ravages of Time—

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—when our cup is still full. Funny … once I was all for progress but as I mature I find myself hugging more and more trees, and casting almost desperate eyes upon the rapidly departing elegances of fading ages. I guess it won’t be long before the Eiffel Tower is painted dayglo pink and the Yorktown refloated to become a theme park complete with hamburger joints in a Disneyland somewhere …





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