There is no colour in the world today; the sky is leaden; trees are etched in steel; the vines that climb on dusty poles are grey; the road, dull thread, unwinding from a reel. There is no joy in such a day as this. The wind has swept the colour from the world. At the Beginning, with a rasping hiss, on such a day, the nettle leaves uncurled. And yet . . . and yet, could it be that my mind was so submerged in grey I did not see the wind had left a splash of red behind in rowan berries clustered on a tree? Like vivid drops of pidgeon's blood they sway more vivid, since their background is so grey. |