Image Description: A cluster of snowdrops in the foreground with a blurred background of purple flowers in a field
ANIMATED in classical song, the rose garden blooms.
A smell, like a time now passed or stern femininity.
Beauty in their faces,
Adorned with thorns to bleed an offender.
Colour in perpetuity, if life were one moment long
And unsung beauty in its demise.
The carnation lies nearby under a safe blanket of shade.
Lonely and inconsistent.
Not a smell of beauty, only soil.
Colour and chaos and accessibility.
A hug from a beautiful friend.
Where the bluebells and snowdrops break their necks;
Where the weeds are near and the fresh air is sweet against the skin.
The summer’s heat angers the pine, trees and fence in all.
The wrath smells woody, like a wintry candle.
The path is a circuit, patterned and methodical.
The goal of the garden is unclear.
Yet, hidden by a sycamore, much wiser than I,
Is a cobbled path and a gate. When opened,
A single potted plant.
A raging eagerness within the pot.
Lavender.
Sight of violet; purple strong and real.
Let that alone, though, for her smell protrudes the garden.
Hidden, but not secret.
She is alone, and yet the strongest for it.
The flora oft’ are smitten by the rose.
But in its fame, she rises, encapsulated by her loneliness.
Featured Image Credit: Cristian Bortes via Flickr
