Although the green Tahitian lime
is far away, on the orchard map's periphery,
it thrives and beckons me.
I'm drawn to it more strongly
than the intervening orange trees,
lured by exotic sense-identity
as Gauguin to Papeete.
The fig and pomegranate are the closest
to the threshold. They seem acclimatised,
and keep me company. The fig tree is
the thirstiest of all, though I can't work out why.
I hear the whisper of its leaves,
a well's dry memories,
the ghost of water, rain's antithesis.
This little sapling is a sponge,
it should be planted near a spring
whose waters flow from hidden
limestone seams, a daily miracle.
The laurel quietly stands aside,
to have more space, for modesty.
Mapping the orchard
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2007
Свидетельство о публикации №107032001248
Свидетельство о публикации №107032001248
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