There is a dead rosemary growing out of the Cafe table, dried silvery and leaning. It’s a victim of the vogue for indoor greening. Planted in a corner, where it is too sheltered.

Rosemary is a full-sun kind of plant and its paused form is expressive of this love. Her small branches look like they are reaching to grasp an unseen wind blowing through it toward the light. Perhaps it was upgathered by this breath? Did the Spirit hearing her yearning and entangling his fingers in hers, draw the little bush into wherever it is he goes? And what is left on my table is just the spectral form of the longing she left behind?

The traffic beyond the window is unrelenting. As I sit here and watch the cars pass between myself and the Frangipani on the opposite side of the street, I realise that what I see are the same cars circling the block looking for a place to park.

The Rosemary, in its final stillness, possess the deeper movement.

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