… that’s enough of the small talk; let’s into it~!
Queens Park. In the distance a perfectly innocent tourist is quite unaware that she has been flipped over and inverted—and not even on the bridge yet. (Weeeell … I was in a reflective mood. Sue me …)
A cool and frosty morning. Stir well, and repeat dose for a week or so. Then you get this (above). Frozen waves? Sounds like a contradiction in terms … (Right after scoring this shot the ol’ dog lost his footing and dam’ nigh ended up head low and tail high in this wee ditch. Brrrr …)
AGAIN IN QUEENS
PARK. A few years ago this enigmatic epigram appeared scrawled over the footpaths, sidewalks, and pavementations of old Invercargill. After a hiatus of many months (oodles of ’em) I happened across this isolated sample close by the band rotunda, on a morning a lot colder than this shot might seem. It seems odd for a scrawler to come out of hibernation in mid-winter, but that’s Southland for you …
This is the bridge to eternity of the guy mentioned on the wee notice above. Early days of WW2, he was a ‘sprog officer’ piloting a tiger moth over Gore when something went horribly wrong and he tried to land in the main street … (I don’t see how they could turn a joystick into a control panel, but again, that’s Southland for you).
AS FOR HIS
bridge to eternity it was more or less in the centre of this next shot—
—in that street twixt the left hand chair and that dark window in the brick building (cafe). In flames, pilot and craft crossed the bridge to eternity together—
—and here’s the newspaper image of the time. A bit morbid for the Challenge? Possibly not—
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly–and lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
—with any apologies due to Khayyam and Fitzgerald for bridging Eternity for us. Bridges, you see, can be metaphoric as well as physical. Brrrr.