john bowen
Jacaranda – Blue on Blue 1
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Every week she passes from the clinic in Kampala to rest awhile in my arms and marvel at the sky through the veil of my bloom: blue on blue. The southern wind speaks through my branches: “Stay little sister. You have many miles before home, before Lake Victoria laps at your feet like a puppy. You carry medicine for mother. Lay it down. I will stay guard. Lay on my moss carpeted bole and sleep, while I scatter my trumpets to take home as a gift.” I have looked for her for many days now. I know the meaning of her absence. Mother no longer has need of medicine. The girl is spared her ten-hour round journey. She will walk to the shore, and throw my blossom into the lake of her ancestors, in remembrance of a mother, and for a childhood gone: blue on blue. I, Jacaranda, offer shelter to the weary. Many arms wrap round my old, gnarled skin, and many tears nourish the sap in my veins. Many stories of fear and loss drop from little lips in the quiet of my shade. Small faces press against my wrinkled bark for comfort only the inanimate can give. I hear and learn much. I take census of the sick and dying, numbered by my pretty flowers, strewn over the dust and rocks, shearing off in the breeze, or washed up on lake shores: blue on blue.
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