Hundred- A seagull dropping coated Pompei

A forgotten yellow bucket. A cold grey sky. A sea too apathetic to be whipped into anything more passionate than a mild froth. The windswept sand. Clumps of weed and meandering footprints- who could have direction here? Where would one go without some means of going back, not in space but time; for in the here and now and in the future, stretching endlessly on, Morecambe is grey. This is the town of the historian and the photographer- the past and its broken skeleton the only sights. Nothing but the shadow of the past- a stained and dirtied photograph.



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