Roses are such a cliché it
seems idiotic to expect
Too much from them in the
Aftermath of disaster or dread
or a really nasty dark derailing
And yet they often push me
towards a state of serenity that
In turn nudges me to brew up
That first cup of coffee which
Never fails to wake me up
And pull me out of the stupor
Nailing me to the bed or tv
like Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntary!
Roses might even be storing
My garden curriculum inside
Their lustrous centre which eggs
Me on to water the ivies and
The spiders, let the begonias
Dry up a little, and just enjoy
The first and only red rose that
Has finally come up on the terrace!
Perhaps it is there to remind me
That anything after all is possible!