SOUTHERN CLOUD RISING
At the Southern Cloud Lookout, the wind never sleeps. It sweeps across the ridgelines with the weight of memory — raw, relentless, and full of sky.
I arrived just before the storm broke, the landscape stretched wide and brooding beneath a sky the colour of smoke and slate. And there it was: a lone dead tree, stripped bare and twisted by time, standing like a sentinel on the edge of the world.
The light was wild — flickering, uncertain — and the air carried that electric hush that only comes when the weather holds its breath. I framed the shot slowly, deliberately. Not just to capture the tree, but the feeling of it: a presence shaped by wind, lightning, and silence. A figure of loss and endurance, silhouetted against a sky that still remembers how to grieve.
This wasn’t just a landscape. It was a moment suspended between earth and storm — a place where time pauses and the soul listens.
In that frame, I felt the weight of what was lost here, and the strange, solemn beauty of what remains.
At the Southern Cloud Lookout, the wind never sleeps. It sweeps across the ridgelines with the weight of memory — raw, relentless, and full of sky.
I arrived just before the storm broke, the landscape stretched wide and brooding beneath a sky the colour of smoke and slate. And there it was: a lone dead tree, stripped bare and twisted by time, standing like a sentinel on the edge of the world.
The light was wild — flickering, uncertain — and the air carried that electric hush that only comes when the weather holds its breath. I framed the shot slowly, deliberately. Not just to capture the tree, but the feeling of it: a presence shaped by wind, lightning, and silence. A figure of loss and endurance, silhouetted against a sky that still remembers how to grieve.
This wasn’t just a landscape. It was a moment suspended between earth and storm — a place where time pauses and the soul listens.
In that frame, I felt the weight of what was lost here, and the strange, solemn beauty of what remains.