A quiet observer of the shifting light, He walks the hills where shadows take their flight, With silver-halide patience, slow and deep, He wakes the landscapes from their ancient sleep.
No frantic shutter, no rehearsed display, But catching truths that hide in plain of day; The granite spine, the velvet of the moor, A testament to what has gone before.
The lens becomes a bridge, a steady eye, Between the earth below and weeping sky; He maps the wild, the rugged, and the vast, And binds the present to a storied past.
In every frame, a whisper of the breeze, The patient growth of weathered, stunted trees, Alan finds the soul within the stone, And brings us wonders we might not have known
>>>>> Well, all this might be true if I wasn’t still on crutches !!!!! Again, one day innit.
