A Red Rhododendron i.m. Ivan Hrvatin   She has signed the forms in her diffident hand, sent his suits to the Salvos; someone in this gap time, from a distance has given her a rhododendron. Still in florist’s paper it stands in the darkening hallway, a ferris wheel of tiny red gondolas on the rim of colour salvage from the porcelain cold of mourning’s reaches.   Fill your eyes, it seems to say, fill your eyes with colour— a tinnitus of air, sunset’s last glimmer a prospect that the dead keep us in their memory as once it was our…