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Garlands: shades of purple flowers
draped over a shop window in
Covent Garden Market. On this rainy Saturday afternoon,
memories of you come to the fore. I ask myself, shall I ever see the same again?
The past tinted, hues coloured by you.
Reminiscing on conversations we had,
your passion for plants,
cacti filled your room. I remember the single lily in the glass flute, a work of art I construed, and so I transferred these observations unto you: — seeing you as an artist. We spoke about art, about light and shadows and the absence of objects.
Now, transported back to that sunny Sunday winter’s afternoon, time crawled, dreaming with you, shopping for plants at the garden centre N1, that was the day before you disappeared. The following weeks,
I recalled the song ‘sitting on the dock of a bay’ my first experience of melancholia, mizzle in a tropical paradise. I, at Belle Vie, sat on a hill, overlooking the shores and the endless Caribbean sea.
Cat eyes stare: reflects frozen thoughts: my constricted vision dampening the fibrillation of my heart.
A mirror in front of me becomes an impenetrable wall that prevents me from seeing beyond.
