The Botanist
An imaginative composed by Samuel (Year 12 Standard)
Moonlight sifts through the tall pine brush, penetrating the greenhouse’s crystalline arched ceiling in sharp geometric slivers that illuminate the botanist’s cathedral of bioengineered blooms. Rust-stained beams cradle walls of glass, where endless rows of living wonders slowly stretch to reach the pale glow of light. At the centre, the botanist stands proud on the off-white tiles, fractured by the inexorable push of roots and creeping weeds growing relentlessly beneath the ground.
The botanist’s ironed white coat neatly hugs his wrists, ensuring every movement is calculated and measured. His careful hands float to proudly examine his prized Indian lotus flower. Each petal unfurls like pink and white tongues of flame, curving to direct the moon’s silver luminescence within its golden heart. Nearby, his polished artisan timber desk bears not only a testament to devotion but also documents of all the knowledge he deems necessary, such as the beauty of the lotus’ awe-inspiring anatomy.
Concealed by the will of the botanist lurk the thick, sharp edges of the agave plant. Its monstrous fronds hang like dark tentacles, casting jagged shadows over the beauty so sought after in the botanist’s hall of verdant art. Intimidated by its appearance, the botanist refuses to recognise it as life. Within the sanctum, every stroke of silver luminance paints vibrancy upon the lotus, embodying the perfection he so desperately seeks. His gaze never strays to the agave, nor does his research, willingly letting time deteriorate the plant as it constructs itself.
Carefully curated for research, the greenhouse is polluted with stacks of dry, wrinkled paper that plague what was once empty space. Unbeknownst to the botanist, every note is subject to the appearance of nature rather than scientific function. His self-fulfilment lies in the presence of art, with an illusion of discovery driving his intentions.
Tonight the flowers bloom in the moon’s triumphant glow. The thick air of life settles over the rows of carefully analysed cells of beauty, while the agave patiently lurks in the shadows, waiting for the moment when curiosity breaks free from the jail of fear. Until that night comes, the botanist continues to live in the delusions of perfectionism, tending to the same flowers and taking the same notes, leaving the plant with the power to heal languishing unacknowledged in the undisturbed darkness.
