A picture tells a hundred words

Balmoral on a cold, sunny winter morning. It hints at past summer love, teases with the reminiscent colours of hot-weather friendship. A single white sailboat passes between the heads, and the thick clouding of tomorrow hangs in between. You could, I suppose, photograph the view in a hundred different ways, but all would be false. It would look like a deserted summer postcard, instead of what it really is – an urgent souvenir of all the summer days we lost in thoughts and worries and money-making moans. A couple of children running down the stretch of sand, destination unknown. Picture perfect.