Rust

Late one afternoon with nothing better to photograph, and interested in trying out a new lens, I took some shots of some rusty old shipping containers, and some junk stored behind them, through the back security fence of the Royal Brighton Yacht Club Marina.

There were logs that seem to have been used to make pylons, some of the rock that had been used to extend the breakwater around the marina, bits of old rope and some rusty old springs hung from turn-buckles.

One or two of the images seemed interesting so I went back again recently — and this time, while leaning my camera through the security fence, dropped the lens hood. It was lying on one of the rocks just out of reach. Fortunately, a yacht owner on his way to do some work on his boat let me through the gate. So I took the opportunity to grab a few more shots.

I was going to call it "The secret ministry of rust", thinking of the first line of Coleridge's poem "Frost at Midnight". There's a sort of analogy between Frost and Rust, I think. But in the end, I let that drop. The text still sounds a bit like a meditation on death, but I certainly didn't intend that. It might just be the autumn weather that had suddenly gripped Melbourne. Please feel free to interpret the images in a much more cheery light.