Ode to magnolias

We've been having some glorious days of late in Sydney, the tunings of a prelude to Spring. Last week I was delighted to discover that a nearby magnolia tree was out in all it's splendour, so I trotted back to this position of wonder with my camera. The sunlight wasn't quite working for me, neither was my position of trying to be unobtrusive on the footpath, and avoid the construction zone next door, but they are quite magnificent all the same.

I have recently delved back into some poetry by Bruce Smith (you can read about Bruce Smith here), and so thought I'd share a poem of his, aptly titled 'Magnolias'. I first fell in love with Magnolias on the shores of Lake Geneva, which might sound like I'm being high-faluting, but during one day off when I was at L'Abri, in the Southern Swiss Alps, I went down to Montreux with a friend, primarily to visit the Chateau de Chillon, and around the promenade of the lake were blossoming magnolia trees. It was a sight to behold - and I don't recall that I had ever before beheld it, or put a name to a magnolia tree. In my mind it is the moment that I first became aware of their stunning existence.

So, I don't think there is anything very extraordinary about this particular poem, but it do now think momentarily of prehistoric moths when I spy magnolias.

Magnolias

There is nothing petite

about Magnolias.

Each year

their tightly shrouded buds

bulging and blushing

with the return of Spring

crowd every branch and twig

of the parent trees.

And when they unfold the splendour

of their heavy-petalled whiteness

they dare us to believe

that any tree could support

such a grand display.

In full bloom,

from a distance, they look

for all the world

like a mighty flight

of prehistoric moths

or butterflies,

but up close, they seem

like crafted luxuries in stained marble

from the opulence

of some bygone era.

I remember

one Spring in Oxford

many years ago

when winter simply

refused to leave!

Oh how the Magnolias

flung their challenge

at the cloudy skies

and did what they could

to block the passage

of the winter winds.

I learned to love them then

for the sheer strength

of their beauty.

And I love them still.

If some lack scent

it takes nothing from them.

We must not be greedy.

They are generous

to the eye and touch

and to ask for more

is to ask too much.

Bruce L. Smith