John North

Three Poems

Rose

Here is the rose
I cut from the rosebush yesterday,
placed upon the ornamental box,
a study in life after death.

It is morning and you and I
have just woken.
There is birdsong.
Are we becoming light?

Our bed is a small
church of England grave,
a country place,
where the dew settles upon the grass.

We rarely talk, but when we do,
we mean it.

 

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