Not the old apple – the pristine fruit
of paradise
was so clearly the citrus
that Botticelli's Primavera shows.
In nature’s
allegory, there, you’ll see
evergreen
citrus leaves that signify
triumph
over time. Defying seasons,
the trees have
chaste white flowers
alongside a
crop gilt with orange.
Now I break
the soft citrus skin
and naartjie segments fall to hand
with ease,
as in the Golden Age,
till you
beguile my thoughts:
“Can you
give me just one housie?”
Your old
South End language,
the
child-talk of the streets,
wafts me
back to the old homes
and the folk:
the flotsam of people
drifted in from
both sea and land,
naturally
blending cultures,
their gods
laughing like neighbours
– till leprous
apartheid whiteness
tore it all
down, house by house.
I look at
the naartjie segment,
your sweet housie, hand it to you –
just a
moment’s paradise,
a brief
taste of timelessness,
a housie of peace
in this hard
world of men.
- Brian Walter
