Mixed Borders

The Acer and the Agapanthus
The Acer can be underlit. Acer leaves, shaken, frilled by the wind, sing
dancing movements, lightly tossing delicate leaf-hands, turning and overturning,
this way and that, this way and that, showing different hues,
green, maroon, amber, lime, the crimson and gold of medieval beechwoods.
Ever at play. At the touch of the sun’s rays, there’s a theatre of
colour, a tossed head of colour, a thrown head-dress of colour. Come and
play! they cry to the Agapanthus. But the Agapanthus hunkers, clenches
bent leaves close to its centre. Waxy and crouched, it holds its leaves’ dull
gleam at spider-leg angles. Its green absorbs the sun. It can’t be seenthrough.
It does not, will not, play with the wind. It sends forth just one
strong stem which soars out, a swan-neck and head, a green head-veil, a
gauze film wrapped tight round its jaw as if it has toothache. Its neck is so
slender, its oval cheek so smooth, like a horse’s cheek, curved and full. It
holds its head high but it is exposed to the space around it, to the air and
light and people and noise, at the mercy of these currents. It could be cut
with a swipe, one swipe, beheaded, dead-headed. Now, just before it
bursts into flower, you could laugh and say, it has a sock-puppet head, a
muppet head, that Agapanthus. But you would be wrong, for it persists.
There is nothing so stubborn to be born.
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