I sit still, in front of the water.
Lilies float, like aquatic fairies,
Ready to expand their wings and fly.
Except that they can’t. They couldn’t
Then, they cannot now.
They are tied to the mud
By an umbilical cord, which cut
Would let them float, free, for
A while, before they died.
They can only be beautiful in
This little pond.
They can look at the sky,
But never touch it.
They can feel the soft current,
But never flow with it.
They are locked, under key,
Like a sheep in a child’s picture.
And yet, they are.
They live and breathe and
Have their existence in a miniscule
Spec they know as paradise.
And they bloom, and turn
The lowly water hole
Into a Monet master class.
They frame the frog and its song
And inspire the novice watercolourist,
Seated awkwardly over a rock.
They care not what I think,
Or believe should be the
Measurement of their greatness.
They unfold like a poem in
A lover’s eye, as the words kiss
The ear of her paramour.
And in their indifferent beauty,
Beauty itself they become,
Goddesses of the waters,
Angels of hope for the desperate
Focused in the mud.
And I bow my head and let
Them bless me, with the
Sanctity of their sheer presence,
Their delicate strength,
Which takes the muck and the filth,
To transmute them into mother’s milk,
The humble, unsung nourishers
Of their radiant magnificence.