Like that little child, sat scared and alone in the corner,

so sits a single naked flame, a defiant gesture,

against the grip of ‘Midnight’s’ glove.

Litter caught in the net of a rippling breeze,

linked together in a badly choreographed dance,

flame sticks out its tongue, licking paper.

Fuelled, the ‘Fire Rose’ reaches out, revealing surrounds,

with tiny orange and yellow ever changing blossoms,

smoky roots spread ever wider, strengthening the blooms.

Bravado fills the heart of the flaming rose bush,

heat forcing back, one by one, the fingers of the glove,

demanding to be noticed, saying, ”No more am I the child”.

The hiss of rain pounds at the soul of newborn rose,

and like a scolded child, it retreats, begging for mercy,

cowering in its corner, but with a vengeful smile.

Beyond waters reach, the single flame bides its time,

until once again, the blossoms will spread their ‘light’

burning the glove and all those who seek to confine.

© Phil Golding 04/09