Brian Walter
Forget the apple – the pristine fruit
of paradise was so clearly the citrus
that Botticelli’s Primavera shows.
In nature’s allegory, there, you’ll see
evergreen citrus leaves that signify
triumph over time. Defying seasons,
the trees have chaste white flowers
alongside a crop gilt with orange.
Now I break the soft citrus skin
and naartjie segments fall to hand
with ease, as in the Golden Age,
till you beguile my thoughts:
“Can’t you give me just one housie?”
Your old South End language,
the child-talk of the streets,
wafts me back to the old homes
and the folk: the flotsam of people
drifted in from both sea and land,
naturally blending cultures,
their gods laughing like neighbours
– till leprous apartheid whiteness
tore it all down, house by house.
I look at the naartjie segment,
your sweet housie, hand it to you –
just a moment’s paradise,
a brief taste of timelessness,
a housie of peace
in this hard world of men.
Featured on 4 February 2021