FLOWERS AND GRANDEUR
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 & 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 & floral blooms. Thick woolen ombre & mohair coats to ward of the chill, panelled blouses of silk chiffon and jacquard, velvet panels on Italian suede & antique lace folded into collars.
The colours were vibrant against her luminous skin - sumptuous magenta, the deepest teal to match her eyes, dusty blush against the blackest hues & 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.