The Rose lives not in winter,
For it is a gentle thing,
Roses have colours with global appeal,
some are pink, blue, red, white and they reveal
glamour
Snowdrop, tulip, daffodil and crocus.
Your colours coax dull lenses to focus.
Rain often drenched
We can manage a dull afternoon
When punished lilies
Imitate the army of rebel waters
Sneaking
This morning I noticed the roses
were blooming properly. The wind
blowing in a convenient
Pure in petal and promise, cowslips
Decorate every footpath and track
At this – summer’s happy
As the sun lights up the woods
The leaves of fall speak of our lives thru the years
Green
A Master is at work
The road that stretches from Hereford to Elkton
Is not that long
About
Throughout the year
As morning comes
I lay motionless in my bed
And gaze out of my
In raindrops falling curtain,
‘neath the bows of velvet trunk,
Lies in effervescent flush of
Study the trees in Saltaire and Roberts Park,
The large English Oak with a twisted furrowed
Gaze over to the North East and you will see,
In the spring time, bright colours in the
Spring is here for all to see,
So it's off for a walk for you and me,
Through the woods or in a
Snowdrops manifested like a prayer.
A holy white multitude
in first communion
with blank,
Without root
there can never be any flower
the lotus, first plant flower
chakra colour
and
Osteoporosis has stricken the elderly woman sunflower.
Her colossal rusting head-eye so
Freckled throats open adagio
from the base. Temptress to bees
who enter each fairy glove, a
Within my gardens soul abounds,
A spirit stirring neath the ground,
Aroused by secret depths
A Pibroch of wind piping the brutal moor.
The souls of everything fled.
The depressed moor
Last night’s operatic storm
has trembled a galaxy
of larval stars
from their high, milky-black
In the cold blue smouldering of autumn.
Among ruined gold leaves,
smoking berry embers
The bumblebee mourns
among a graveyard of roses
he has loved all summer long.
His murmuring
Twilight medicates
the hysterical summer garden.
Laudanum of luminous blue
doping
In the work of the world, everything is a poem;
slow petal hinges closing the drowsy flower -