At the end of the world,
thrust up in slate met sky ,
This, the tell tale tip of a story older than word.
The unveiled poetics of symbiotic, planetary breath
cast in stone,
shaped by a travellers wind
wound in and out,
drawn sharp across ocean face
and unfading sky
to scribe Gaia’s epic
in courageous, elegant scars.
Here in silence does the globe echo.
8 billion minds
dismissed by prehistoric resonance
A symphonic stillness.
Aeons of esoteric aural eruptions
too sacred for surface simplicities
carry on, unheard.
Unaware of contest
stand these monoliths,
Throned in isolation,
kings of a climate cloaked court,
So unyielding in height
their shadow selves
would stir passionate the meekest heart
and bend humble the warriors knee
What rapture found upon
Earth’s fractured bones,
what breathlessness to stand in peace
in the purity of distance,
at the altar of dream
and bare witness
to form immortal.
Ice slept gods,
these giants upon the tundra
These images are silently confusing. The lines and forms are only relative to themselves; independent of, and with no reference to human activity, the content hangs suspended without context.
These Arctic walls of grand soaring granite have gradually been sculpted by the unrelenting relationship between weather, gravity and water for eons. Being witness to this environment one’s perspective is distorted; accuracy of distance to size and time is incomprehensible. It’s a guessing game. What appears as a pebble in the distance could be larger than a family home, and as you gaze upon the granite someone could be climbing that mountain, but you would never know for seeing.
These photographs fail, but successfully. They fail to show you the perceptual distortion in the environment; they succeed because they show you how unattainable it is.