Ponygraph

6.8.12

black and white

Here is a bunch of great black and whites from my desktop

It would not be true to say she was doing nothing: She visited several bookshops, spent an hour in the Victoria an Albert Museum (Indian section), and walked carefully trough the streets of Kensington carrying five mushrooms in a paper bag, a tin of black pepper, a literary magazine, and enough money to pay the rent for two weeks.
The sky was cloudy, leaves lay on the pavements.

Nor did she lack human contacts: she spoke to three shop assistants and a news vendor, and returned the 'goodnight' of a museum attendant.
Arriving home, she wrote a letter to someone in Canada, as it might be, or in New Zealand, listened to the news as she cooked her meal, and conversed for five minutes with the landlady.
The air was damp with the mist of late autumn.

A full day, and not unrewarding.
Night fell at usual seasonal hour.
She drew the curtains, switched on the electric fire, washes her hair and read until it was dry, then went to bed; where, for the hours of darkness, she lay pierced by thirty black spears and felt her limbs numb, her eyes burning, and dark rust carries along her blood.

Fleur Adcock