This rose knows nothing about Paris, Raqqa, global pain.
This rose is silent. It is a wordless song of colour and perfume.
This rose is not aware of climate change. It blooms when it is ready. Mid November – why not?
This rose grows on a rooftop in Battersea. When the garden is shut it continues its rose-existence. It does not miss me.
When I lean in to sniff its rain-fresh scent, does it sense me?
When I say hello, does it hear me?
Does it know it is a balm for my atheist soul?