Ode To The Hydrangea

(Ideally to be declaimed by myself, clad in dramatic red velvet gown, standing on pub table before adoring throng of spotty, anoraky eighteen year olds studying NZ Feminist Literature 101 and clutching their brandy, lime & lemonades).

Walking home from ballet class 10 pm, newly stretched and aching
During lull between violent pulsating rainstorms
Thunder and lightning have ceased, sky still light
Air vibrant and fresh, thrumming
Clouds part, revealing apricot streaked blue sky
At every garden I am accosted by massive, thrusting bushes of hydrangea
Bearing flowers of profoundest pink
I adore your proud, blowsy, rounded, kindred, womanly, fecund globes
I tremble before your slatternly, potent wantonness
Each tiny fleurette opens its female soul to mine
“In your face!” I whisper



Jesus Christ Almighty and gag me with a spoon – that must qualify as the most appallingly over-ripe tosh I have ever come up with.

I guess I must be ovulating.