The rose stammers into her
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
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.
If you've any comments on
this poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.