Protea
 
I am Protea. Once I ran wild
beside a river in Africa.
Outrageous in my colours,
I was cochineal. I was green. I was silver.
 
In December they uprooted me
from the rich red soil,
sold me into exile in a sunless hemisphere
where she said I was natural, magical,
more tasteful than tinsel,
more subtle than mistletoe.
Then she stuck me alone in a tall glass vase
on a cold window sill.
 
In February my leaves fell.
She took secateurs, severed my stem
then she left me to desiccate, vegetate
in her five-a-day fruitbowl.
 
In April I'm still beautiful
as a pale sea-anemone, a pink artichoke
or a husky pineapple from the Azores
 
but I languish among the papery orange lanterns
of seven Chinese gooseberries waiting to garnish
a posh pudding she knows will never happen -
with six cellulite lemons, two shrivel-skinned pippins
plus one William pear deliquescing to mush.
 
A bevy of purple plums arrived today -
luscious, juicy, all sheen and bloom - but I told them:
Get out of here my friends, while the going's good
or the best you can hope for is to get stewed.

By Tonia Bevins