Bright flowers of Tulips – sumptuous blobs of paint on an artist’s palette.
Mesmerising intensity of colour that pierce pin holes in the fabric of reality, pulling our gaze into their little vortices.
Succulent velvet tepals on totems hover over the emerging carpet of spring green beneath.
Finest among them are those with multiple depths of colour as though the artist has captured the layering clouds of the cosmos.
Dipping their brush into a pot of eastern spice.
Colour changing with light, silks blowing gently in the dry heated haze.
In some the colours bleed from one to next, taking inspiration from Turner himself.
Disposable and fake too. Wasteful, guilt ridden, throwaway luxuries.
Some point to species tulips, more perennial by nature and likely to return but missing the artist’s eye and flick of brush.
No other flower compares to the delicious, fleeting morsel of the tulip.
Perhaps I struggle with their impermanence and craving because they’re a reminder of all things.
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