You can interrogate roses all you like
But do not lie. The rain waters you too.
In this human garden it is you who is the flower.

Roses at the graveside:
Blood red petals grown from the ground
An abyss of petals?

Fervent and well paid scholars
Argue, when babies cry,
That's one in eye for scholars

Loyal and intelligent dogs smell a vacancy
Nightly and the less than gentle cats, pride themselves on nothing
More than sleeping their days away.


Some folk are friends of science and reason
I do not count myself within their number.
I sparkle in the silence of being
I love an unalloyed horror of darkness, sublimity later.
I will not be a counter of days, whatever you might say, or do.

My attitude to roses, whilst dreaming, differs in many respects
As there's so much water on this planet stretched out 
and salty. When I dream of being awake I am almost myself.

Damage is a testament to youth
Water in the atmosphere is full of magical sparks,
Vague, hungover stars, accompany me
into the wilderness of self, that is my recreation. 

The rose's shadows are mysteries,
Graves are covered with blooms
But only for a day or two. 
It is every soul's delight to bask in the light
Of this poignant red rose. I do, too.