Conversation by a bougainvillea

 

Conversation by a bougainvillea

 

 

‘Oh yes.  I admit it.  You are right.’

 

‘You don’t have a leg to stand on, amigo mío.’

 

‘Yes, I know.  I know.

This bougainvillea is afire with purple,

The colour of the Mediterranean,

As the old gardener said.

The bushes flame with colour,

Bright and strong.

And it is good.

I quite agree

That it is marvellous to see.

 

The hibiscus blows its trumpets,

Huge and red,

Till they fall as night falls.

 

As I look up, I see

The sky is cloudless,

Blue, all blue, all day

All month, in fact.

 

But what would I give

For a shy violet,

For one, just one,

Hiding from the intrusive sun.

 

Or for the quiet beauty

Of the primrose in the hedgerow

As if bouquets were planted there

All ready for a bride to gather

To throw over her shoulder

To the waiting maids.

 

Or the brave cowslip,

Small and fragile in the wind,

That blows on the meadows in Somerset,

In April when the fresh showers come

To the distant call of the cuckoo.’

 

‘Well, if you bring an English spring

Into the question,

That is hitting below the belt, my friend.’

 

‘If I bring in an English spring,

There is no contest.

You must admit it in the end!’