I Hate Gladioli In brown tillings they oddly lean in angled tangents, an undisciplined lot they seem, large plots matted like pelted fraidy-cat-hair spiked in multicoloured alarm and desperate, without grace unable to follow sun-sprinkles with their overblown blooms when ascending lumpy spires, unbalanced and ranging on one side only. They flaunt no elegance at passing breezes, nor bow to evening nor tilt at suns nor proffer perfumes to folded butterflies too confused to groom plumose antennae. My father revelled in their keep, kept sister bulbs brown bagged and labelled, shelved row and row through the barren of winter. In the heat of summer when sidewalks shimmer he tickled their privates with a mohair brush to cultivate blood-spills from their throats hoping for a new bulb named for posterity. He gathered them in when their flowers were opulent. Sliced them off with a great knife and stood them in wicker, heads fanned to the handle, tied for discipline and regimented by colour held at attention facing forward. If the basket be turned there is nothing in back. |
Betty Ponder |