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Red on Brown

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“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





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