At times it is not an image or words that stand well, but their union.

The short two line poem above emerged from my experience of photographing a field of tall dry flower heads that spread far into the distance. Despite their dense, prickly stems, being among a swathe of Teasels in early spring felt vital, beautiful. A place where the colour and sound of summer insects and the seed of autumn plucked by birds long gone. A place where memory and the light of day unite.

. . .