Just like the last green in a colour pot
So are these leaves, withered and wrecked
Behind the flower umbels, which reflect
A hue of blue, only more they do not.
Reflections are tear-stained, inaccurate,
As if they were about to cease,
And like old blue notepaper sheets
They wear some yellow, grey and violet,
Washed-out like on a children’s apron,
Outworn and now no more in use:
We contemplate a small life’s short duration.
But suddenly some new blue seemingly is seen
In just one umbel, and we muse
Over a moving blue delighting in the green
(Translation by Guntram Deichsel)
Callum and Andrea’s garden is adrift in a sea of blue hydrangeas. They share with me. A shard of blue sky caught against a wall washed in sunshine. Sunday. July 24th, 2011 10:00 am