The perfect colour is not one colour at all.
Passing hills. Soft round mounds. Velveteen rugs with
bread loaves tucked tightly, awkwardly, underneath.
The scene meets the eye soft and deep olive green:
completely convincing; a faultless argument, made with ease; a serene and
simple certainty, settled in a sea of convolution; an unconscious cradle that
coddles, that cares, that comforts. Deep, soft, olive green.
But really it ranges from pale-grass yellow to glass-bottle
green. Sun-bleached emerald to gunmetal-rock and countless shades between.
Lonesome bushes of sage and sea mix with crisp sand and orange-sunburn-dirt. And charcoaled sections – spark-scorched – mingle with worn patches where giant
knees and feet have scuffed and left their dusty russet mark.
Beware the perfect colour. The perfect colour is not
one colour at all.
