A wooden door in Paris.....
Painted duck egg blue with a fine brass knocker. It used to be grand. Used to
be the house on the street that wanderers would marvel at and bohemian folk
would flock to for tea and parties.....
Now it is faded with a
nostalgic air of tragedy and loss. But the air of beauty has never left.....
I heard he used to write
her letters, long and drawn out pages of his unwavering love for her and how he
would rather die than live in this world without her. Used to buy her bunches
and bunches of fresh exotic flowers that
he would leave by that grand blue door - Calla lilies, Orchids, Sweet Peas
and Poppies......
You used to see her.
Gliding around the streets in her exquisite finery – dresses made of the
lightest silk illustrated with an artist’s palette and floral blooms. Thick
woolen ombre and mohair coats to ward of the chill, paneled blouses of silk
chiffon and jacquard, velvet panels on Italian suede and antique lace folded
into collars.
The colour were vibrant
against her luminous skin - sumptuous magenta, the deepest teal to match her
eyes, dusty blush against the blackest hues and nude pink so naked it was
almost indecent.
Whatever happened to them?
Where did they go? Their presence was strong enough to leave a mark, a remnant
of history that will always remain on that Parisian doorstep of flowers and grandeur.......
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