Purple is my favourite colour. I wrote this piece several years ago; I hope my new followers will enjoy it and those of you who have read it before, won’t mind reading it again. The flowers are from my garden.
Purple sits on mountain tops. It tugs your soul at the moment of daylight into dusk and hangs in the air when a heavenly fragrance wafts past. It lives in the taste buds of a chocolate connoisseur and of course truffles, excellent brie and fine Russian caviar have more than a touch of purple in their chemistry.
Purple is the sound of a Beethoven symphony. It is the colour of majesty, commanding homage from those who wait in awe for the moment when purple sweeps into view, adorning the triumphant.
Moods of purple are sensuous, evocative, illogical to the browns and greens of this world. A mystical aura envelops those with purple souls. Dancers, like Fonteyn and Nureyev, were swathed from head to pointed toe in every shade of purple; a soft and frothy mauve for lighter moods, the tragedies all dark and swirling into tindered sumptuousness.
Unpredictable, tantalizing, never moderate or mundane, purple is renowned for extremes. Pavarotti is purple; an excellent example of the soul, the talent and temperament of this colour. Tempered and trained, never fully controlled, it flashes brilliance or leaves one in despair. Reliable it is not. Gentle and tender are not the norm, but purple also comes in pansies, soft as wood-smoke.
To live with a purple soul is at once the epitome of heaven and hell, difficult for all when the mood is dark, but a journey through the stars when it soars.