I understand why some might posit a universal design. Why daffodils? Why sand patterns after the tide? Why dragonflies as blue as the June canopy, skimming the grass between my steps? But I’ve seen beauty staring back at me from broken-down bus windows and supermarket queues, scattered in slums and salons and fetid street corners, beauty beyond any guessing or rule. It’s an accident of alignments, angles and tones – and most striking when it appears with no warning or link to its surroundings. Beauty doesn’t feel part of any cosmos blueprint, it’s a supernal trespasser at the commoners’ ball.
