Summer nocturne
I look out over the garden from the high window of the bedroom. Lights off, I don’t want to disturb the night’s blanket. I see the peonies, glowing like pale moons suspended above the lawn, caught in the inky foliage. I can smell the trace of elderflower; so strong in the day: its almost ghastly sweetness, the undersniff of pee. It glows and my eyes are busy telling me that the colour is white, top of the milk white, creamy, greeny white. But my brain, ever the rationalist says no, not white. Not white at night.
So what is it then? I ask. I don’t have the words for these nocturnal colours.
If I were painting I’d know what to do. A gentle coaxing of the night’s indigo, lightening, mix in a dab of unbleached titanium white. Make the colours light then darken them again. Think, look, adjust. The subtlety of the night garden, limited and limitless.
I don’t have words, being a daytime creature. It’s a small spectrum, colours washed together and all coming out midnight blue, some surfaces holding the hue, others leaching it. It’s a new world. What do the visiting fox and the mice see? What would I see, if I sat here long enough?
