Tubs on the lawn filled with geraniums,
scarlet minivets flitting in the pines.
When the whistling-thrush sings
at dusk from the chir I will be
a clear space without sound or shadow,
no winged bird to return me here.
Mavis Jones charts her own vivid map of the imagination in Her Festival Clothes which stitch together empires and individual lives, from the almost forgotten era of the British Raj to the lush coastal forests of present day British Columbia. In that sweep are visions of colour and rich texture - royal silks and salmon ruby - and the secret knowledge of those who see and yet remain unseen.