Light is never still enough, has a mortifying
effect. We know how to fill but not refill. Red’s wave
nanometres too lengthy to embody defeat.
I can’t find that photo taken near your house in the
Camargue. Three black pomegranates split and sagging like
burst balloons. My nature morte hung high against white sky,
leafless grey branches. Snapped and stored only to recall
what’s gone – a walk along the rice paddy, rosemary-
scented palms, fleur de sel from the étang, Provençale
artichokes from the market in Arles, a flamingo’s
mating dance behind eyelids. Such predictable pink.