Linda France

If a plant grows towards blueness,
the light it needs to feed on,
it's dark that lets it flower - the far red
of dusk, a switch to set day's edge.

Your skin is clock and calendar,
gauging the length of night you need,
the silence of what may remain
unsaid and slake your deepest root.

Ten thousand miles away,
your body remembers the weight
of the muddy field you left behind,
weathered stones, monochrome;

the brisk omens of sky-changes:
a bowl you know in your bones
if it's full or empty, scattered
with northern stars, the moon's salt eye.

Home's heathery weft unravelled,
you are exposed - infra-red,
ultra-violet - bleached by extrovert
sunlight. A flower transplanted,

earthed in fire, not knowing which senses
disclose where to lean, when to open.
...

A sound like uzz
flattens in a sleepy zzz.

Something's missing
you can't put your finger on:
lue-ell, uddleia, leeding heart.

Look at it like this:
lack and yellow.

Reakfast is toast,
unuttered,
sweetness squandered.

How soon reath stiffens -
wreath's rictus.
...

If a flower is always a velvet curtain
onto some peepshow he never opens,

it's a shock to find himself, sheltering
from the storm in a greenhouse,

seduced by a leaf blushing blue
at the tips, begging to be stroked.

He's caught in the unfamiliar ruffle
of knickerbockers or petticoat, a scent

of terror, vanilla musk. If he were
not himself, he'd let his trembling lips

articulate the malleability of wax;
the bruise of bracts, petals, purple

shrimps; seeds plump as buttocks,
tucked out of harm's way, cocos-de-mer

washed up off Curieuse or Silhouette.
But being Bernard, he's dumbstruck,

a buffoon in front of a saloon honey
high-kicking the can-can. Can't-can't.

He attempts to cool himself, thinking
about seahorses, Hippocampus erectus,

listening to the rain refusing to stop,
soft against the steamed-up glass.
...

§
The words they use: perpetual summer,
endless growth, guaranteed survival -
as soon as there's too much of anything,
your mind snaps shut, nothing stays natural.

Endless growth, guaranteed survival -
among so many flowers, loneliness:
your mind snaps shut. Is nothing natural?
Copper light in the star apple trees.

Among so many flowers, loneliness;
some bloom for only a single day.
Copper light in the star apple trees,
torch ginger setting fire to green.

Some bloom only for a single day,
ribbed and veined like our own bodies.
Torch ginger sets fire to green.
Palms are fans, windmills, feathers.

Ribbed and veined like our own bodies,
all the trees are multi-tasking.
Are palms fans? Windmills? Feathers?
There's garden and there's its opposite.

All the trees are multi-tasking -
the labels they use. Perpetual summer:
there's garden and there's its opposite
as soon as there's too much of anything.


§
When the sun's at its peak, what we need
is shade. It makes squirrels of us all.
We are animal and contingent,
nosing down unfamiliar smells.

Shade makes squirrels of us all.
Tree roots are wily as crocodiles.
We nose down unfamiliar smells,
past palms with elephants' feet and ears.

With tree roots wily as crocodiles,
this heat's conducive to great stillness.
Up in palms with elephant feet, hear
insects beep like life-support machines.

In the heat, conducive to great stillness,
butterflies pretend to be petals,
the insect life-support machine beeps
while a beetle dribbles nectar.

Butterflies pretend to be petals.
The drongo displays his long black tail.
A dark blue beetle dribbles white nectar.
The turtles are always hungry.

A drongo displays his long black tail.
When the sun peaks, what is it we need?
The turtles are always hungry.
I too am animal, contingent.


§
You can't hear what you've left behind
above the racket of birds, insects
and the endless static beyond
what you remember as silence.

Above the racket of birds, insects
illuminate the night garden.
All you remember is silence,
monochrome, a dream's frequency.

Illuminated, the night garden
revolves around a banyan tree,
monochrome. Don't dreams frequently
replay old dramas of lostness?

Revolving round the banyan tree,
you negotiate arrival,
rewinding old dramas of lostness,
anchored by twisted aerial roots.

Once negotiated, arrival
fast-forwards into departure,
anchored only by aerial roots
or, on the wing, bats' sonar instinct.

Fast-forward into Departures.
You can't hear what you're leaving behind:
on the wing, a bat's sonar instinct;
endless static beyond listening.
...

Today we have naming of plants. Yesterday
we had raising the flag. And tomorrow morning
we shall have what to do with the prisoners. But today,
today we have naming of plants. Lilly-pilly
sets pink saucers of sweetness all around Botany Bay
and thus we revive the glory of jam.

These are Grevillea, Hakea. And these,
Brunonia, Blandfordia, whose use you will see
when the Endeavour commands. And these are Calandrinia,
which the natives call para-keel-ya. Bu-jor
is Melaleuca the people here use for mattresses
and dressing wounds, swaddling newborns.

This is Hibbertia, named after George Hibbert,
London merchant, one of our most generous patrons.
I don't want to hear anyone call it its common name - Climbing
Guinea Flower. This is our land, paid for with our coins.
Most of the blackfellas die of smallpox. Some just disappear.
Those that survive learn the King's English.

And this little beauty is Darwinia. I don't need
to tell you who it celebrates. No, not that one -
his grandfather. Isn't botany a system based on class,
the natural order of dynasty and empire?
We will remove the Cabbage Tree Palms and lose the emu,
ship the rebels' heads back home.

Back home to Sir Joseph Banks, the reason we're here today,
naming the plants, in our own image - Old Man Banksia,
Swamp Banksia, Acorn Banksia, Cut Leaf Banksia -
stubborn, ambitious. Note their spikes and cones, exotic blooms
in his Florilegium - wiri-ya-gan, wad-ang-gari -
for today we have the naming of plants.
...