The 6.14 to nowhere in particular. Mist took the far end of the platform before it took the near.
Three the same and not the same — she turned a half-degree between each.
A lit window, no one in it, kept on for whom.
On the patience of platforms
A station teaches a particular kind of waiting — not idleness, not quite hope, but a stillness that keeps one eye on the board. I have been photographing that look for years without naming it, and lately I think it is the closest thing I have to a subject.
First snow over the canal — it didn't settle, but the night held its breath for it.
Before, and a moment after.
Twilight, the mercury kind — the other sort of streetlamp.
Fugitive Spaces
A morning's wandering on the working Thames at East Greenwich, two days before Christmas — somewhere between witness and trespass.