chrysanthemums

five heads, copper and gold, each one a dense little sun packed tight to its own centre. the leaves smell green and dusty together, the way a coat that has been hung up wet smells when it finally dries.

the brass pot has lived in the parlour for longer than anybody who set foot in the parlour. it was polished last on somebody's birthday and has been tarnishing politely since. it stands on the dado-shelf below the chair painting, in the corner where the lamp does not reach.

they will last twelve days. the petals tighten before they fall, so that on the morning of the thirteenth there will be a small copper fistful in the bottom of the pot.

field-note — chrysanthemums in brass dim each other. the brass eats the gold of the petals, and the petals dull the brass to a deeper colour you would not get from polish alone. it is the only way a parlour learns to age.

see also: dahlias · white lilies · a winter bouquet · the colours wing