Friend or foe? Sometimes colours call out a warning, and red is very often used as a sign of danger. Poisoned apple perhaps, or is it safe to eat? We breed our fruit now to make it look more appetising, and it can, if hurried on or waxed, or refrigerated for importation, seem a little false or unnatural. But red can also mean luscious and that goes for strawberries and lips too. Red is the colour of passion and of the blood that we carry unseen.
Yellow bricks just visible if you stand and look at your ruby boots, rapidly disappearing now under the blanket of snow that swirls in flurried flakes, mini-cyclones like the one that brought you here, so long ago. And the way is lost now and the cold soporific sleeting sways itself down in tiny feathered hammocks brushing your weary skin. Sleep is called for, and a soft silent space, where dreams may dare to shine rays into reposing forms. The red softened to pink blooms by tears, by failing strength, and slowly, one by one, we fall down and are covered.