​Califlower


I owe my eye for bursts of purple hue
In painted scenes to love's inductive force;
My native eye is green, remarking blue
And gold, neglecting purple save, of course,
The lines on tapioca leaf, melon stalk,
The streak on rain-wake blossom, all unreal
Against background green as spokes that walk
Slow counterpoint against the swift-spun wheel.
Your bright sheen on my fabric drew the flush
Of Tyre-and-Sidon yield for priest and king;
My heritage was grafted to Monet;
As if the celebrated every day
In sweet palm wine pressed bounding mesh to wring
From novelties of grapes your fluid hush.

First published in The Victorian Violet