Tuesday, 7 October 2014

The Rose

I recall writing today’s little poem in 2003 after pausing to admire a rose in someone’s garden.

My mother loved roses, as did my late partner. Both died many years ago. They never met, yet here I was bringing them together in my thoughts, years on. How strange and sometimes incredibly moving that memories can be triggered, as if my magic, by the slightest thing, past and present fitting perfectly into each other like pieces of a jigsaw.

Will I ever be a perfect fit into someone’s jigsaw, I wondered…? And what will the complete jigsaw look like, mine or anyone else’s …?

It is no coincidence, I suspect, that the trigger for such thoughts, and indeed a poem, should embrace such visions of the heart as beauty, peace, and love.


One by one
its petals fell away,
dead in the sun,
fed to the clay

We helped it grow,
wished for blooms
at side-windows,
in our dreams

If winter keeps
no flower in view,
a rose but sleeps
like you

Let seasons pass,
remember us…

[From: The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2014]

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