A poet takes the long way to the festival, through a field of grass grown taller than his shoulders. Long before he can see the garden he can smell it, and he follows the scent the way one follows a voice in another room.
A fragrance has no shape, so this rug carries no figure. Fine lines of olive, straw and moss run its full length like that field bending in the wind. From across a room it reads as a single colour. Draw near and it opens into endless greens and golds, as a scent does when you finally reach the flower.
