Martine & Stephen

Batchelor

 

Was it just the sombre light of dusk that enhanced the red of the swan as it glided over the river to settle on browning water?

In the glare of midday the swan becomes a blinding scream of red, so bright that every tone and shade is lost. 

At night, under moon or street light, that red sinks to a uniform lustre of crimson.  

Yet the light of dusk is not light diminished but light matured. Underfeathers turn to the red of claret, wings to the red of silks, neck to the red of blood, face to the red of pride. 

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