Friday, 29 August 2008

French sky

You can see, here in the south, why Hugo as a poet is so fond of the word azure.

Contrails, some thin unbroken white lines against the blue like lines on a graph; some fuzzed along their entire length like uncarded wool.

Raybans give the sun a mane of geometrically triangular flares.

At sunset the sky becomes the colour of rosé wine: fresh and liquid.

No comments: