There is something about scale in this photograph that keeps drawing me back. The helicopter - an air ambulance, a machine built around the idea of rescue -appears almost impossibly small against the quarried face of Breidden Hill.
Behind it is igneous rock formed hundreds of millions of years ago - a geological timescale that makes the brief span of a human life feel almost incidental. And yet we have cut deeply into it. Bench after bench has been carved from the hillside, turning something ancient into material for the world we have built around ourselves.
That contradiction is what interests me. We look fragile here - a tiny machine suspended against an immense wall of stone - and yet collectively we have the capacity to reshape whole landscapes.
The presence of the air ambulance opens the photograph up further. It is there to rescue us when our bodies fail - carrying all the ingenuity, urgency and compassion of human beings trying to save one another. But set against this excavated landscape, another question begins to surface.
Who, ultimately, needs rescuing?
We depend upon the earth even as we alter it. The photograph seems to hold both truths at once - our vulnerability and our power - suspended for a moment against deep time.
And then, when I look again at the photograph - more closely this time - I notice the raven's in flight. They are little more than black marks against the quarry face, but, somehow, their presence enhances the photograph for me. They bring feeling back into the frame - fragile, fleeting and free against the wounded hill.
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