What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water.

T. S. Eliot

David, what a wonderful coupling of image to written word. The image has even more depth overlaid with such descriptive lines.

 

I think we must share the same appreciation for these kinds of places. Nice find. Did T.S. Eliot come to mind while you were taking this or after? However it's a wonderful marriage of ideas.

Thanks a heap. Knowing your work, I am not surprised that you like this. Of course, the raters didn't. In answer to your question, it struck me as a wasteland when I took it, but I did not tie the thought to the work until I downloaded the image last night.

Nothing came here in a long time, now only the weeds feed on the grime. Simply the wind now plays around, disturbs the stillness, brings about sound. Where are the hoots of the car horns, no laughter of children this place adorns.

Every day here a visitor comes, smiling down upon these grounds. He brings

colours, he brings grace, there's not a tear on his broad face. Laughing

his way across the sky never he fails to soar by high. Ending this poem in a high mood, there is just one question for the Dave dude - it's not a complaint, it's not a rap: what is Dave doing here, shooting this crap?

Wiping away sweat, wiping away tears? - then Micheal says bye, Micheal says cheers.

You are indeed a poet. Thanks for the elegant words. I am honored.