What is it makes art, art?
With the sun down,
this low, dusty hill murmurs to quiet.
At the tired house where a door hangs, crucified from one half of hinge,
you can almost hear that
light, whispering radio sounds
remain within.
The helmeted cops are probably,
only recently gone on?
Outside, almost hidden in heat blistered trees,
are petty birds who’ve ceased their riot
and settled scores,
taken their winnings one by one.
Unaware how deep dusk can be,
one last, ruffled-loose feather drowns.
The photographer chose black and white,
those two which are every colour or none
and I agree.
There exists enough to imagine from what first seems a limited pallet.
Mystery of all sorts rebounds,
is set free from the affliction of too many
nailed down ideas.
Without much chromatic noise to follow,
any willing witness becomes again callow,
as if hollow.
Any who choose to peruse
can separate for a moment
and stare into whom or what
is evident by apparent absence.
What was seen and is not now obvious,
miraculous returns, resurrected.
Robert On The Air 