One summer morning on my way to Portobello Market I noticed a pinprick of intense blue in an ugly mass of concrete. I looked closer and discovered that one perfect lobelia had escaped through a tiny crack to bask in the light of the sun. I was enchanted. This fragile flower, innocent and vulnerable as a new born baby, had transcended all obstacles to reach freedom. It radiated joy.
I turned to share my delight with a neighbour who approached. He was a short stocky man dressed in tweed jacket, brown felt hat and brogues. Before I could speak, he bent down, grasped the tiny flower between finger and thumb, wrenched it from concrete and flicked it away. He nodded at me, pleased, and walked on to collect his morning paper.
I reached for the little flower, placed it in my palm and attempted to piece together the delicate stem which hung like a broken arm. I felt as if my heart woud break. I took it home and pressed it into the illustrated pages of The Selfish Giant where it remains to this day.
Downstairs ran the giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass and came near the child. And when he came quite close, he saw the wounds on the little hands and feet. His face grew red with anger.
'Who hath dared to wound thee’ cried the Giant. ‘Tell me that I may take my big sword and slay him’.
‘Nay!’ answered the child ‘but these are the wounds of Love'.
The Selfish Giant, Oscar Wilde
I have tried to erase the memory of that day from my mind, but the scene replays each time I pass the spot where the tiny llobelia spent its brief moment of joy; hat, jacket, shoes, bend, pluck, flick, nod, hat, jacket, shoes, bend, pluck, flick, nod, hat, jacket, shoes................................................................................................................................................