this rose

rose

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?

 

 

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2 thoughts on “this rose

  1. johnclossick

    Hilaire thanks. I felt immediately uplifted reading this.
    And what a perfect picture of a rain-lashed perfect rose.
    The picture is now on my desktop. And mid-November, why not!
    – although I suppose there are some awkward answers to that. John.

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