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

Black Roses

A garden of black roses,
a busted cross – dark eglantine.
A ruined plaster saint around whose hip
an ancient vine entwines.
Black roses for the bedside,
black roses for the bed,
stone fruit upon the table,
stone clouds up overhead.
The cottage on the cliff
that you once stayed in as a child
has fallen into disrepair,
the garden let run wild.
Stone flowers for your garland,
dead laurel for your head,
black roses for the bedside,
black roses.

[first posted 26 November 2014]