I wait all year for these irises to appear. I brought them from my late parents’ garden. Their joint enterprise; my father grew them & then, my mother would paint them.
Each May, I take many photos, but it’s never the same as drawing or painting from real life. Yesterday, I grasped the moment, sat in the sunshine & recorded their beauty as best I could.
This morning they were gone, their remains like shrivelled, wilted paper left on the stem.