Magenta   is the dressing-gown I pounced on in a sale, synthetic but soft as moss furring damp stones in a wood. It’s my keeper on a cold night.   Just to look at it is to be kindled, to know life needn’t be dull as drizzle on bleached leaves or a river too muddied to welcome sky,   to know life is more than unhappiness poured into a phone, than pain nailing itself into the spine, destruction exploding in a busy street.   I search out magenta in cushions, cardigans, cyclamens and discover it has existed for aeons in…