wild roses

wild roses grew on the border
but pretty soon after died
I moved into the Albany
and sat up every night
there is a window on the soul
if we have a soul at all
there is a phone here by the bed
but I never make a call
there is a wind and there is a wood
and there is a darkening way
there is a phone here by the bed
but I wouldn’t know what to say
from a room here at the Albany
and a window on the soul
I love a quiet garden
where wild roses grow
no one has an answer
no one has a key
wild roses on the border
no longer bloom for me

stream

mountain breath
and I find the lost valley

yellow
the tiny alpine flower
where I first heard
the astonishing singer

opening

never one for dancing
it is not too late to learn a new

step
not hide in the stairwell
under a mist of concrete and chrome

only
yesterday I attended an opening
while downstairs 

blue
chrysanthemum seedlings were
preparing to yawn at light

like baby birds
yet to show true colours

tulips

once he bought her tulips
to put upon her windowsill
because he thought her beautiful
and wanted her to know of this
but she would not approve of it
and called it inexcusable
and so he gave her silences
cold and painful silences

no one buys her flowers
to put upon her windowsill
because she is not beautiful
though to him still beautiful
pretty coloured tulips
sitting on the market stall
once he bought her tulips
now never shall again

[a sad tale in a deliberately naive style]