This blue flower… no, not lavender… opens with a b… borage?… no, such a harsh sound… ah, bergamot… a dark scent that tickles the nose… shame about the taste
a letter from India on blue paper slight as tissue has lines which hold me lightly in your breath. How Stella as a teenager liked lifting and stroking my hair with her lapis fingertips in front of friends and strangers, leaving all equally bemused! If you want to relax properly, wear Turkish blue
imaginary birds weave over the windshield fling and flutter their quick temper deflects artificial lighting and draws night into their wings
at home, their cupboard smelled of Orange Pekoe, Tupperware and old containers. There were honey sweets with a lattice motif, a sticky mess in a tin decorated with the robes of Mary. The statue dwarfed us at the doors when we visited my auntie in the convent up the mountain top
the tea leaves feel rough to the touch unlike fine hairs on a brush pencil shavings or ribbons before unpleating in hot water meanwhile tiny bubbles burst up foretelling passionate flirtation with a stranger
if they find her in time by the November snow, still in her habit, they will notice her knuckles and forehead turning a light shade of plum in the twilight. It is almost enjoyably sad to know that she died in the wild, but no woman would have wished for a different end to her life
Mélisande Fitzsimons