There was a smudge of navy blue painted onto a peachy sky. Nothing had changed but the eery manifestation of fading light, on a winter's evening. The drama of moments passing. And WE were there. My lens captured the scene. But the sound of the moorhens cooing, . . .
It's the witching hour, the gloaming. Patterns and shadows play across an amber horizon and as usual I am drawn towards the . . .