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Contemporary International Poetry

issue 9904:12

John Bailey

Even now the garden is not done.
I found three roses today, only
slightly singed by cruel-voiced winds.
One was in bloom, the others in bud.
I cut them, feeling rescue was needed,
spoke to them gently, trimmed them,
stood them in a jar on my desk.

Within an hour they began to breathe.
Slow and steady the soft air of summer
fell from them along with a single petal
and a little pollen; buds stirred,
petals stretched, accepting warmth
where they had expected none.

Outside the sky rants fierce,
sending heavy ferry-clouds
hurrying from there to another there,
rain for Wales, snow for the Scots,
grey for the Midlands, mist for the hills.

As the last winter-coloured light
moves off to the west, my roses
gain strength, swell, sing summer songs
from beneath the lamp.