Martin Jordan
artist
artist
The reluctant bride
There are turtles lined up along a log, watching us go by or perhaps they are just imagining us, and there’s a frog that plans to leap from the lily pad at the moment the turtles drop down, so they all hit the water with a synchronised plop. My thoughts keep wandering back to the girl who doesn’t want to go but I can’t interfere, it’s none of my business.
It’s afternoon and the sun is shining on the front of Fish Canyon, so it’s Fish Canyon. Such a peaceful place but usually it’s empty and I’m wondering about the people. Who are they? Where to they come from? Where are they going? Is it likely that a man would bring his only daughter all this way from the remotest forest in South America to watch the final performance of the last orange juggler, before he’s ritually devoured by feral dogs? It seems improbable. I’ll go and ask him.
Fish Canyon
The Fishes of Fish Canyon
The man form South America and his daughter
