Written on a visit to the Cambridge Botanical Gardens under a writing prompt from the amazing Maria. I was glad to have pulled this out of the bag in the space of about 20 minutes, with very few edits made afterwards. I am glad to have coined the word 'deadfast' within it!
11.06.24
Lost amongst the green- I was. Sat there, staring into the thick, broad leaves of the prickly rhubarb. A plant consisting of flesh and veins pumping verdant chlorophyll through its wizened body. I wonder if you can eat it like you can eat regular rhubarb, though I suppose the spiky texture won't be very kind to the mouth. Despite their lack of flowers, though, they seem to exert a sort of magnificence above the other exotic flora surrounding them.
The sun was dancing amongst the clouds that day, almost taunting me with its presence before hiding behind the grey again. That was until one huge shadow cast itself over me, awakening me from my deep thoughts. My pleasantly mundane daydreams. A tall yet lanky lad he was, about 6 foot 4 I'd say, with a matte blue anorak and a cap covering strands of mottled grey hair seeping out of his head. He wore sunglasses so dark that they shielded his eyes completely, hiding even the slightest hint of emotion from an interrogative view.
“May I sit ‘ere?” he asked, while moving to sit next to me regardless. I could not decline because of this, as well as being in my hazy, dazed state.
Noticing my deadfast stare towards the trumpeting leaves of the rhubarb, he sought his invitation to begin conversation. Well, more monologue than conversation really, as I found my lips oddly sealed and his rhythm of speech impossible to interject.
“Ah, the Gunnera Manicata. A flower that almost folds you into it. Embraces without constraint, I'll tell you. Not to be confused with its sibling plant, though, the Gunnera Tinctoria, which is a horribly invasive species, choking other plants around it of sunlight.”
His breath smelled faintly of the oil you get in anchovy tins; metallic, stale, a waste product.
“Legend has it that once a young girl by the name of Mary Cumming got lost in these gardens. Seen on this very bench. People tell tall tales about the flowers calling out to her; their smooth song ringing from between the leaves, swaying in the hot summer's breeze... Never found. No explanation given, all visitors who were present on the day accounted for. She peered into those leaves, the dark void between green light, and never turned back. Who knows, maybe a small part of her remains lingering in the soil, atoms of carbon and phosphorus lost within roots and earth. Her voice calling out to the wind with no reply.”
With that, blue anorak slowly got up and left, leaving me completely lost for words and thoughts. But the thoughts swept in over the coming days. Those glasses remain burned in my mind, as well as the everlong feeling of that dry summer's breeze shifting through the tall and broad leaves.
Comentários