Cacti

A Quiet Bulb of the Sun

In a quiet corner of a London greenhouse,
the cacti stand—fortress‑like sentries of light,
their spines a pale‑gold colour that catches the noon,
while I sip tea and watch the glass world shift.

Their stems, sharp‑pruned like the late‑night drifts of snow‑capped moors,
thrive on thin water, absorbing the dampness of rain‑clouds,
yet turn towards the sun as though a pilgrim striking a cairn,
the sole compass that guides them across opposite seasons.

The garden‑layout of my back‑yard, a knot of hedgerows,
feels oddly fitting beside a cluster of rugged spires,
each a small monument to resilience, as if the very earth
had decided to applaud the small yet bold, thorny pride of cacti.

They do not whimper for the damp summer climate of Britain,
nor do they lament the cold of winter;
they stand, a quiet bulwark against the dram of bowlled rain,
favouring the amber of a late‑afternoon glow,
their tips dusted with the faint glitter of dew, proudly austere.