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

only at dusk

the garden slopes down
towards the brook

and the little wooden bridge
to the summerhouse

where at dusk they met
and found acceptance

only at dusk

before supper
a hand of cards

turning in

at dusk
they found their

gradient
there all that time

but obvious
only in the half light