Liz Zacharias
Lemon geranium
The leaves are edges of tattered maps,
Unfinished geographies
Repeating the same journey of light
And green spaces,
Fine as rice paper but with tiny invisible barbs
That hook like a finger
And release the scent of lemon, carnation, thyme
Each leaf a messenger.
Something on the tip of memory,
The yard, a tumble of ragged green leaves
Tiny purple flowers,
I am outside playing
In the dust, in my sandals and short sleeves,
Inside the sound of water running
Of women talking in the kitchen as my Grandmother
Cooks, I am back there - in Cyprus.
Here with my lemon geraniums I am in an another
Dimension, incongruous.
This is Liz Zacharias’s first published poem. She lives in Walthamstow, North London.
Page(s) 44
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