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The Rose

I wrote this and then wandered out,feeling a bit strange.

How it grew without soil or sunlight
only the riverbed knew
swordlike beneath the ripples
its flower spilled fragrant silver
Because of the cold and deep
none stretched hands to the rose
though swans wove it into their nest
and the briar guarded their children

At twilight, the blooms
startled marshfrogs into singing
Of a river stained like fire
Of a bed where the sun slept
little knowing that their music
and the gold light on their skin
was born of an exile
fallen in a swamp

It occurred to me to phone Bro, but then,if he has forgotten the anniversary maybe that's a good thing. No point bringing him down.

Last year, my neighbour bought me a rose to commemorate Dad, a rambling rose of the 'seagull' variety, which,with his love of seas and travelling and islands, is perfect for him.It bloomed well this summer.

Today I went to the local church to leave a candle for him, because who knows and why not? But it was locked. Outside the church door was a trolley with some faded plants in it and a note pinned on, saying, 'Help Yourself.' One was a rose, an 'Allisar, princess of phoenicia,', based on the legend of Ellisar who tricked her way out of a tyranny, wandered the seas with her followers and founded Carthage.  It felt like a link between us, oceans and travellers,  so I brought it home.

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