Purple

Purple

I happened to glance right and was winded by a patch of pale
purple, guilelessly embroidering the border of the M40. Rolling
in the last rays, it seemed to shrug, unaware of its shimmering
incongruity, square as a tile, rippling like bubble-wrap; a
stunning,
eyeshadow-soft sore thumb, as mouthwatering as the tickly dust

from blackcurrant sweets. Its calm, lavender, chill scalded me
somehow and for hours I had a floating, pebble-beach, pointillist
crush drifting in violet blots before my eyes, almost until the
engine
had cooled. Who, in this warm, apricot dusk is parceling up the
land,
franking with this sticky purple stamp, this breathtaking postage?