Rose Garden Return Ashton Court
A year on from the pocket of frost
that held our fragile lives
within its frantic fist of uncertainty
and bald fulsome fear,
I sit again.
The same bench damp
tear soaked, dew soaked
I cover its creeping chill with mackintosh
I’m scarcely warmed by a weak early sunlight.
Here is that same reverie of birdsong;
listen –blackbird, finch, robin, thrush
wood pigeon my brooding companions.
Nature our one constant, like stars
or, my Grandchildren’s eager open faces
hearts and slightly dented, hope.
The gates have been locked on this garden
black wrought iron curlicued grip
of cold closure, locked on life.
Now the roses almost-bloom
in tended tilth, hold their promise
of a season perfumed, heady, open.
The city hums it’s counterpoint
to all this breath held beauty.
The solitude a balm of sorts.
The dead still lie and quietly so.
We hear the voices of the children
rising for their future of hope.