Red on Brown

“Who do you suppose carves canyons

for the downpours of rain,

and charts the route of thunderstorms

That bring water to unvisited fields,

deserts no one ever lays eyes on..?”

                                  Job 38:25-26(The Message)

Greyia sutherlandi

Natal bottlebrush.

At the start of spring,

even before the rain,

when everything is

still dry and brown,

remnants of winter,

it blooms.

Not timidly.

Not obscurely.

No!

Loud shouts

of red

higher up

the mountain

across the river.

Putting up

their display

in plain sight.

Flaunting it.

Red, red, red.

Right on the lip

of the cliffs,

flower arrangements

in mid-air.

They keep so well

in pots,

last for days.

If you can get

to them.

If you can

lean over

far enough,

stretch

your reach

to its absolute

limit.

The dogs

who follow

me

everywhere

look at me

perplexed,

then back off

from the edge.

What exhilaration

when you

hold the stem

finally

in your hand,

turning

the flower

in slow admiration.

Why,

now,

when we

crave

colour,

do they not

hand themselves

over,

fall

in our

laps?

Why

do they dance and dart

just outside

the circle of

our arms,

the tips

of our fingers?

I

will cherish

the few

I can pick.

But

I will

not

make a plan.

Let them

shout and laugh

with their

red, red

throats.

Let them

swing and sway

in

mid-air.

In plain sight.

Unreachable.

George