It wasn’t until I was pushing my way through the crowds outside Trinity College that I realised King’s Parade might not have been the best place to meet someone you have never met before. Cambridge in the summer reminds me of an ant nest, where tourists, students, locals, and professors trip over one another in the bustle of their separate lives. It is certainly not the easiest city in which to find an unfamiliar face.
But: here is a secret joy about the flickr community I am part of. Even the faces of friends I have never met before, the faces of friends who live everywhere from Lincolnshire to Los Angeles, are faces which are familiar to me, thanks to my laptop screen. I had come to Cambridge to meet Louise, and she was sitting on the low wall outside King’s. I recognised her instantly.
Three years ago I posted a lonely hearts ad on my flickr account.
Girl, 18, (brown hair, hazel eyes, Nikon D40)
Friend, (any age, any camera), for summer photography project.
june – july 2012
eleven months later I discover photographs on a forgotten harddrive. They should live between blossom and grain and no courage without fear, but here they tell a different story.
sub·or·di·nate clause (noun, grammar)
a clause in a complex sentence that cannot stand alone as a complete sentence
a clause that modifies the principal clause or some part of it
the main clause always functions without the subordinate clause
whose tiny space is /Mightier than the room of the stars, being secret and filled with dreams
Perhaps it was Seth’s fairy tales, but she dreamt the evening sun set fire to the horizon. They sat together on the dry grass and watched the fields burn, and his fingers traced her handprint in the dust as the distant hiss grew into a thunderous roar. The trees took like kindling, gold against the twilit gloom, and then the one by one the stars began to fall from the sky. She traced the fireballs with her fingertip, tumbling soundlessly into the red pit below the hill, until the sky was dark and there was nothing but the fire and Seth’s hand over hers. “Look what one spark can do to this place,” she said in a voice which wasn’t hers, and then the flames licked the crest of the hill and they lay down on the matchstick twigs. He said her name three times, and the sky was dark, and she realised she was awake.
the lake district, part ii
(part i, here.)
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very Heaven!