Carissa, white star in a forest green sky,
hiding behind double-edged swords,
they gutturally call you, “Amatungulu,”
seeing your milky, copper-red fruit.
The herbalists name you “Canine death,”
but you quieten their hearts.

Charlotte, seeking solace in English gardens,
fingernails permanently stained with earth,
became the benefactress of the heavenly fowl that is no bird.
Lovingly she embraced the massicot crown
above the pale sage stem.

Celestial stars, cheerful labourers,
growing in great profusion,
your bright faces follow the sun.
But you mischievously refuse to close your eyes at day end
and gazing intently at the moon,
you transform your periwinkle locks into grey fluff.

 

 

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I had some fun with the flowers in my garden.
See if you can match the pictures to the stanzas.

carissa felicia strelitzia

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