Progress
A red brick wall stands where once there was earth. The last remnant of what grew there — a tree’s shadow — flits across the surface, ephemeral, rootless, and fading.
This is what remains of a landscape once protected, once green. The tree is not pictured, only its echo. The wall is not art, only assertion. It is the nature of shadows to vanish when the light moves on. And it is the nature of modern “progress” to mistake replacement for improvement.
After the Second World War, Britain’s Green Belts were established not as decoration, but as covenant — breathing space for generations unborn. Their erasure, now dressed as necessity, is a slow forgetting. The houses may be needed. But the trees were too.
This image is not a cry of rage. It is quieter than that — a whisper of what was, and what may never be again.
Let it be a witness.
Progress
A red brick wall stands where once there was earth. The last remnant of what grew there — a tree’s shadow — flits across the surface, ephemeral, rootless, and fading.
This is what remains of a landscape once protected, once green. The tree is not pictured, only its echo. The wall is not art, only assertion. It is the nature of shadows to vanish when the light moves on. And it is the nature of modern “progress” to mistake replacement for improvement.
After the Second World War, Britain’s Green Belts were established not as decoration, but as covenant — breathing space for generations unborn. Their erasure, now dressed as necessity, is a slow forgetting. The houses may be needed. But the trees were too.
This image is not a cry of rage. It is quieter than that — a whisper of what was, and what may never be again.
Let it be a witness.