The Way of Flowers

June 2009 was its last borrower. The book, illustrated, instructive, bringing to Western eyes a floral artistry, exalted on Japanese altars, aeons ago. Protected in plastic and withdrawn from Dewey’s coded placement amongst the ‘Decorative Arts’; the outdated stamp giving it the aura of a cellophaned bouquet left at a memorial. But now this preowned tome makes one rung on my ladder of hardbacks, piled close to hand on the small side table, Slipping between Fletcher's edition of paintings dipped in the poetry of Hughes, and Calder, balancing the art of sculpture. "Ikebana" encompasses both, simply  by bringing flowers to life in a minimalist theatre of poised, colour arrangements. And for such, we must handpick leaf and sheath, pine stem. petiole and plum petal, releasing them to intersect the circle of perfection drawn in space. Posed by invisible fingers, fastened with formality, straight to the upright abode of deities. Cuts, angled  and precise, press into a sword mountain base, nestling amongst shallows. From a symbolic rock tumbles a cascade, and to the left, the merest hint of curvature, breaching the horizontal so that like a humming bird, the eye never settles, never completely withdraws.

There is a tinted hint of  Autumn in these mornings now and the page has opened on a basket of anemones and foliage burnished by briefer days. All so splendidly rendered that my unskilled replication could only ever be the poorest form of flattery. Perhaps I'll close the book for another day, and another day, until it will lie in the dust of perpetuity, with all those things I planned to do before there is no time left to do them.