Out in the meadow, the grasshoppers stridulate and a woman wails. The colours of the flowers blur in the mirage, blotches of shadow between their shivering stems. Heady pollen fragrances carry on the breeze, suffused with something rotten. I am reminded that the sun shines on a peony as easily as it shines on a corpse.
Paddy Dobson
25th February 2022