The forecasted storms did not materialise
Instead a morning of wild & phenomenal skies
Turner himself could not have painted such colours
Diaghilev himself could not have elucidated such movements
Reds as true as the blood drawn by Spanish bullfighters
Blues as sure as Yves Klein himself would have ground
Silvers and whites as clear and bright as the most majestic of imagined miraculous visitations
Pinks and greys both flamboyant and calm; an immense sense of tranquility, stillness amongst the highest of transformative energies
A sky formed from infinite layers, as if a thousand deep stage curtains, each one rolled slightly back to bring the one in front into view, then repeated ad infinitum until there, at the point of disappearance, is a light, a light with all the joys of life in its luminosity, a weightless shining, an emissive source of brilliance, at the very source of brilliance
In the afternoon, on the journey home, heading south east, looking due west: a length of cloud beyond the grasp of straight on vision, as if a carpet of crumpled white felt was hanging from the stars, an impression of damp felt, with a shower of iridescent droplets falling towards the mist covered ground
For those on the terra-firma, immediately beneath these shimmer fine lines of water, they may say it is no more than a shower; but to me, these few miles away, it is as it was the beginning of a spectacular stage show, perhaps a curtain raiser to Jean Michel Jarre, with all his wondrous visual projections
from
Parting Shots - Love Of The Status Quo
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