The Rose

The rose stammers into her summer winds
Singing love songs to the sun.

She will not last long in this heat, this night,
This morning; she will crackle and shatter

As though death had come finally.
And when her petals are turned by the heavy shout of wind

Or the luck of the draw, she will see the attitudes
Of those who do not know the beauty of the blue sky,

The feeling of swifts lazing and the whole smell
Of immaculate oceans, little widow with a bent smile

Waiting to bloom as the final hour sounds,
Dolorous bell, dolorous bell, a colouring in of afternoons.

John Cornwall

If you've any comments on this poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.