Here -
Where...locked doors open to sharp knocking...
Where...chapel neat red velvet seats line walls of rooms that glow with stories of hill and tractor, long tipping nights, and arguments lost to hated officials...
Where...memories are painful and lonely deaths from Park Drive and Senior Service are still talked about in public houses...
Where...boasting is frowned upon...
Where...whispers are heathen across bleak land...and words are spoken loudly by clear eyed distant people...
Where...clotted shoes clamber over torn stile, delayed stone wall and heathland water..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
Documentary Fiction Photography
Steve Coel
