melancholy

I am bathing in the colours of melancholy at the foot of the Ventoux; swatches of the fall of the summer weeds and a walk into nakedness.

I am taking coffee outside. My eye wanders along a tangerine lake to it’s spinach shore, two lime puffs stand sentinel. An orchard’s tree-tips have been dipped in cerise. The crisp parchment of the vine leaves clap …

I go away for a week; a week of electric lights, Mozart symphonies and packing. I wake up from an afternoon nap in Lyon and gather my concert clothes. I arrive at the gig with my see-through Cotélac rag and, instead of the black strappy number that goes underneath it I have dozily hauled out two pairs of black knickers. (One for each breast?) Luckily a colleague helps me out.



I return home. The lime trees are the colour of custard, the fire in the cherry orchard is raging, the lake is burnished pumpkin and surrounded by pease pudding.

Tomorrow I leave again. I left my Camper concert shoes in a bar in La Rochelle and luckily my black suede birkies arrived in the post just in time. What will I lose this week?

Four days in which the custard could turn, the pumpkin become friable and the pease pudding blanche…..

Every colourful day counts.