when life gives you lemons
your view is simply golden
that was unfolding green
life
when you lemons gives
sours the fish to perfection
and tangs the meringue
you
when lemons life gives
sing like a gin and tonic
something super sonic
gives
life lemons when you
think about it the pip
plopped in pots for new surprises
lemons
you life gives when
their scent’s a sign god-sent
tingling like lemonade
The
presence of the lemon in home gardens dates from early settlement. It harks
back to the self-sufficient orchard divided from the fabulous bush by a wire
fence. The lemon knew its place and came to stay. Its contribution to the still
life is under-appreciated. Sun-absorbed orbs orbiting around the trunk were
lain to rest in an earthen bowl. Applications of indications of yellow on
canvas or masonite touched upon minor unspoken bitter memories. Their sunlight concealed
the astringent realities beneath appearances. Deep space ovoid planets,
foregrounded by golden ellipsoidal void fillers plucked fresh from the tree
branches, spoke of home in a strange land. In as much as objects speak, though
don’t all objects speak? They were as the sun rising upon the semi-circular plane.
Soothing is the sight of lemons, calming, as they speak of somewhere in Asia where
they originated, long long before their presence was felt in Australia. Mandatory
inclusion of a prize specimen in a sunny spot is a thread running through
settler memory to the present day. Boxloads are placed free at front gates.
Laundry baskets make their way to car boot sales. Planter buckets at farmers’
markets. The omnipresence of the lemon makes a joke of the overpriced
vacuum-sealed day-glow objects in supermarkets. Laid down quietly on the kitchen
bench, we notice them when they’re not there. Always good to have a couple
spare, to meet the recipe, to elude the melancholy mood of absence. The
distance between Peter, Paul, and Mary’s ‘Lemon Tree’ and U2’s ‘Lemon’ is the touch
of a radio dial. The theme itself never changes. Their juice is invisible ink. Songs
written go unread. Many odes to their virtues have been writ in their juice,
held up to the sun as a form of childlike testament. Some of the greatest
tributes to their secrets have gone unseen. Tributes to their rind, rich and
rare, the sharpest element grated into curls for a soufflé or a jubilee trifle.
Tributes to the pip, spooned out of the juice extractor, pinched into action
between thumb and index finger, bouncing across the kitchen tiles. Because the
presence of the lemon is a meeting of opposites, swept across fish flesh to
enliven the flavour, squeezed onto sugared pancakes before the present events
of Lent, dropped in any place to give a lift. Because sweet white flowers and
greening fruit, enlivened every season by sunshine, by gardener’s urine in
private contributions, by the certain rain of the Southern Ocean, are present
again in unseen back gardens writ large with invisible ink.
