echo (the second)

This is a new version of an image by the same title that I posted a while back. When I made that post John Walford wrote the following poem as a comment:

Seemingly framed by mellowed dome,

Its chalky surface trapping shadows,

In its pitted, once-white surface,

Hand cupped to her mouth,

Hair pulled into a bunch,

Eyes set fast before her,

She calls but one sound, and waits,

For what may--or will--come back to her.

Done