iris

three stems, three blooms. one open, one half-open, one still pursed. the blue is not the blue of the jar but the blue of an older sky — the falls are darker than the standards by an octave. the beards are the colour of amber.

the jar held quince syrup, a long time ago. it is the kind of blue that only old glass remembers. it lives on the study windowsill where the light comes through twice — once direct, once off the glass — and the iris is lit from inside.

set there by the keeper on the day they opened all the windows. they will last six days, but the second is the best one.

field-note — iris smells faintly of the jar and not at all of itself. its scent lives in the standards, briefly, and only at dusk. see the mourning-iris for the darker variety.

see also: red anemones · pansies in a teacup · the colours wing · bouquets