Gloves Didn’t Help

Love the photos. The title, “Ghosts,” beckoned me in to read.


It is that time of year when if you manage to drag yourself out of bed at a decent time, then your journey to university is usually a crisp and cold one that gradually brightens as you get closer to your destination. The illusion of happiness is therefore created as you finally step through the doors of your library and flop down onto a desk to tackle the thousands of words you have left to write for your course works.

Today was not a crispy clear morning but a foggy one. As I cycled down the road, I couldn’t help but stop to take a few photos. The fog was wonderful and it felt quite unnatural given it was already 9:30 in the morning. The roads however were empty, what remained of the city work force during this Christmas period seemed to have already been hidden away in their toasty…

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Opal Pool

… time passes … sigh

Elan Mudrow

Photo by Elan Mudrow Photo by Elan Mudrow

The roads are so young

Where old mines have been forgotten.

They stumble through the forest

Uneven, full of ruts, washouts.

Men have come with tools

Left them, returned with better.

Implements that shine silver

Rust resistant, until rains never stop.

The goal is to cut clean, to sprinkle

Shaped earth, decorating the contours

Of river, pools, and growth.

We, the ones, who yell along trails

Echoing off ancient volcanic movements

Slip five dollars

Inside an envelope–

license plate number–

Scrawled in human–

Bleached white envelopes–

Connect with the eerie reflection

Of how we carve, paint, sing, make roads–

And yes, the art of the outhouse.

The parking lot must be made bigger

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