Some photographs are planned.

Others are simply waiting to be remembered.

I had almost forgotten this one.

It was summer in Mara North, and the morning had arrived quietly. A soft drizzle hung in the air, the kind of gentle rain that reminded me of home in Ireland. Mist settled across the landscape, softening everything beyond the immediate scene.

Then, in the distance, I saw him.

A massive bull elephant with impressive tusks stood beneath a great camel-thorn tree. From where I was sitting, the tree spread above him almost like an umbrella, sheltering the old bull from the fine rain.

He was completely unaware of me.

The scene was beautifully simple.

Two trees stood as silhouettes against the pale morning sky, the larger one framing the elephant beneath it. Beyond them, the landscape unfolded in layers, each line of trees fading progressively into the mist towards the horizon.

The clouds were there, but they were bright rather than threatening. Somewhere behind them, the rising sun was beginning to break through, its glow visible in the sky and creating a luminous, almost high-key backdrop.

Against all that softness, the elephant and tree became almost graphic.

Dark silhouettes against a brilliant African morning.

I remember being struck by the contrast. There was no drama in the elephant's behaviour. He was simply grazing beneath the tree, completely at ease, while the landscape slowly revealed itself through the mist.

Yet the simplicity made the moment powerful.

The enormous tree.

The old bull.

The distant layers of the Mara.

The first light of day.

It felt timeless.

I made the photograph, moved on, and eventually it became one of those images that disappeared into my archive.

Years later, I came across it again.

I couldn't understand how I had forgotten it.

Perhaps some photographs need time before you see what was there all along.

This is one of them.