Thursday, April 22, 2010

Cut Flowers

It used to be the fashion to have framed mottoes on the wall in the parlour. We, too, had our fair share and one that I still remember is this little verse: The kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth; one is closer to God in a garden, than anywhere else on earth. The words were superimposed on a picture of a garden and the whole framed by a circle of brass butterflies.
I grew up in gardens, thanks to my Father’s military stint. And I number among remembered friends a profusion of blooms: the delicate Cosmos tossing in the breeze (think chiffon flounce), the incredibly blue Cornflowers, velvety Foxgloves, Snapdragons (a child ventriloquist’s best friend!), Helichrysums (honestly, could they be real?), spicily scented Geraniums, chubby, self-possessed Michaelmas Daisies (my all time favourites), towering Sunflowers, and overweight Dahlias. All these, in addition to the ubiquitous bougainvillaea and lantana. Roses were mandatory and sat proudly in their separate ‘rose bed’ but these were no friends – they had large and very sharp thorns!
What set off this reminiscence? A friend dropped by with a bouquet, prettily arranged and headily scented. But my heart prefers blooms that are rooted in the soil – rooted yet free. If you had a garden to look out on, would you really swap the view from the window for a vase on the table? Close your eyes and, for a moment, picture a garden in full bloom:
Did you notice?
The scent, the mien, the style?
Flowers have personalities too!
Some are wild and wilful
Others fat and content.
Then there’s the stately lady:
Stiff, formal and unamused.
Royalty among the riff-raff?
They spring from the earth
And to the earth return
Their circle complete.
Giving life.
Bringing life.
Then there are those
Which feel the touch of steel.
Chopped, trimmed, lobotomized
Posing in sterile splendor
In vitreous bondage.
Flung by careless hand,
They exit vase for bin,
And thence to squalid rot.

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