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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “Bloomblind”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
A pale room hums like a fridge after load-shedding. Black polo-neck holds its weather close. Green hosepipe ribs loop the skull— rubber with the faint algae bite of a noon tap on the stoep— a trellis schooling light to wait its turn. From the weave, red trumpets nose through, petal-lips glossed with sap and small pollen hush. They drink from the cream day, peg themselves to the braid, little lookout mouths teaching silence how to sing. The mouth below stays steady as a stop street. The city flickers in the plait: a Gillooly’s of thinking, belts over belts, off-ramps of doubt. Hadedas grammar the distance; a kettle tries a thin whistle; the neighbour’s broom ticks the passage like a metronome. Inside the weave, the day softens— a peach forgotten in a jacket pocket. She practises not-looking the way acacias practise thirst in the Karoo: storing a river in the stem of a minute. What she knows travels by scent and pressure— leaf ribs counting like prayer beads, flowers reading the headlines of her pulse. Somewhere under the paving, ants argue; somewhere above the roofs, rain starts a rumour. If she loosens one loop, the season will spill— a green unscrolling over pavements, Table Mountain letting down its tablecloth, the vlei remembering its mirror, clear as after veldfire. For now she keeps it cinched, carrying a private weather— a quiet plan, while day drips—tap not quite closed—into the root of thought.
Alternative version
She wears the morning shut with green, hosepipe ribs looping the skull, a trellis that keeps light outside. Red trumpets peg themselves to the braid, drinking from the hush. The rubber smells like a noon tap on the stoep, sun-warmed, faintly bitter with algae and drought. Her mouth—steady as a stop street— holds the only colour allowed to wander. Petals lean, little lookout mouths, teaching silence how to sing. Inside the weave the day softens, like a peach left in a jacket pocket, warm, forbidden, sweet to the guess. The city breathes through her—slow taxis, a kettle’s thin whistle, the neighbour’s broom. Every stem makes a tiny click as if counting the seconds of load-shedding. She doesn’t reach for sight; she listens to what the flowers report: a rumour of rain, an argument of ants somewhere under the paving. If she loosens one loop, the season might spill— a green unscrolling over pavements, Table Mountain letting down its tablecloth, the vlei remembering its mirror. But she keeps it cinched for now, carrying a private weather: blindfold in bloom, a plan made quietly, so the country can look again when she is ready.
Lyrics
The pale room hums like a fridge After load-shedding, air sits still Black polo-neck keeps her weather close Green hosepipe ribs loop her head Red trumpets drink light from the braid Warm as a peach in a pocket Rubber, noon tap on the stoep Little lookout mouths teach hush to sing Her mouth holds steady, stop street still Day waits its turn inside the weave keep the light low let the rain flow Hadedas mark the distance A kettle tries a thin whistle The neighbour’s broom ticks time Ants argue under the paving Rain starts a rumour above roofs Day drips, tap not quite closed, to root thought She practises not-looking, Karoo calm She stores a river in a minute Leaf ribs count like beads Flowers read her pulse for rain keep the light low let the rain flow Tablecloth falls Vlei remembers keep the light low let the rain flow
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