My neighbour’s oleanders are breaking into masses of flower, cerise, light pink and a heavy cream that is near-yellow. Because oleander bushes are so poisonous I don’t plant them in my garden but the sight of them, the balled flowers and leathery spear-shaped leaves, the pools of black shadow below the bushes, makes me think of Greek islands, white walls and black rocks, indigo seas, griiled baby squid, feta cheese, Calamata olives, sunburn and uncomfortable sex on hot afternoons.
A distraction from thinking about the veld fires raging all around us in the mountains, sweaty firefighters coming in to get medical attention by helicopter. The big dog shivers with fright as the yellow helicopters fly in low over the garden to land on the fields across the road, blades a blur and engines roaring. Tractor haul water tanks up the road, there are fire engines on access roads, a fine blue haze hanging low on the mountains, plumes of innocuous-looking smoke.
Oh, and oleanders remind me of Greek lemon trees growing in pockets of stony soil. I’m not awake yet this Monday morning, let’s have a poem by Jennifer Atkinson instead:
Lemon Tree
after Agnes Martin
Tilled snow
Plucked arpeggios
Of revery rungs
Laddered for zero
The inverse of music
Undelirious lines
Correggio’s
Unchecked hand
Minus the background
Noise of content
The aftereffect of citrus
Scent and the curious
Dryness left
On your hands
When you pare
The fruit opens
