I picked a small bunch of fynbos, placed it in a cup. Here where the wind seldom relents and the soil cries out for more nutrients, could it be that all these need are light, rain and carbon breathed out by industry and me?

I’ve seen Indigofera capillaris drop her seventh leaf for a small purple flower and James Britannia form red stripes out of five of his petals. I’ve seen Phylica Ericoides change from grey to bright. I’ve smelled Diosima Guthrei’s tiny white stars, even the bruised leaves of Agathosma cerefolium.

This cup of beauty is a mystery to me, why should it exchange oxygen to me?

Why is the dirty air exhaled by me and you met by so much fragrant beauty?

If not designed by a God full of mercy.