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

there all that time

but obvious
only in the half light


in the old days
I used to heal life’s little ills
by imagining a secluded garden
where I took restorative waters
from an old brass cup

these days
I’m at the Chelsea Flower Show
drinking from a golden chalice

second viewing

they waited weeks before separating
until after the first frost
and in that time nothing much happened
except the air was unusually still
and for a few short days at least
there was a late flourish of summer
in which the garden looked lovelier than ever

then all of a rush they were gone


beautiful – she said on second viewing

can’t say I garden much – said the agent

like an old postcard – she said
carefully closing the gate behind her
strange but I didn’t notice it at all before
not at all

she turned to take a last look
a sudden gust blew up from somewhere
causing the few remaining petals
on a single white rose
to drop like snowflakes
onto the flowerbed below

I’ll take it – she said