Words and Art by Zoë Porter-Parsons
Purple trumpets signal
to the breeze,
sounding their spring
arrival
shamelessly
petals unfurl,
presenting themselves
and their precious cargo
to the world
regal goblets
overflow
women’s skirts defy
gravity, flowers defy
natural laws
& suddenly a
Venetian vase shatters,
tossed from a high
window it
splinters
on the path ahead
Saffron and spice and
everything nice,
flowers seem to
chirrup
from stigmas
saffron is birthed
a golden sun against
a violet sky
nectar dripping in
tranquillity or
disquiet?
Sailing in a sea of
prestige and fortune
East Indies to
Terra nullius
roots displace thousand-
year-old soil
the native usurped,
motherlands toil
vessels perpetuate screams,
unheard below deck,
screams
unheard below earth,
flower beds left
in their wake
We stop to smell
roses
yet do not look
beneath,
too entranced by
the fair and fragrant
we prick thumbs on
thorns,
freckling in the
scorched sun,
blood drops
mingling with the
flesh and sweat that
fertilised this earth,
this dirt,
from which the crocus
emanates and
grows beautifully –
saffron, aubergine, the papers
in parliament,
all grow from this
same soil.
