A flight of poppies

This morning while cycling I passed by there. And suddenly I thought of a ride in a 2CV with my grandmother on a small sunny road in Dordogne. The resurgence of a simple, magnificent and shared feeling, linked to the image of a wheat field dotted with poppies to the airy rhythm of a convertible Deux Chevaux.
And bloody hell. The image of Kenzo’s poppies disrupted this evocation. Thief.

 

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