A metre tall, branched and gnarled, dry buds
and scaly withered shoots from seasons failed:
a cutting I once took from home, the spring
promising, when shoots and buds made ready
for another year, their underground desire
to welcome mulching leaf and deep sweet earth.

While my father died I cut a bunch
of flowers from his home. They unfurled
their fragile beauty slowly til the day
the petals fell, fled, shed by the fading
stem, memorial more than date or monument.

The cutting never flowered in my new land
Soil too dry, too dark, too shallow, shaded,
shadowed, in the only place open
and wide enough; stony ground perhaps,
unwelcome, needing care, an old plant now.
Buds at every turn which fade and shrink.

Now after all these years the burst of flower
has come. A greening bud, a lengthening stem,
escort of leaf, slowly the flower swells,
its helmet opens. In the morning sun
an intricate fivefold centre cupped in unfurled wings,
the blush that makes the rose seem plain and coarse.

Deep in its heart the ripening ring of gold,
the five-fold crimson centre of fertility,
sing for an absent ghost. Years too late
it has flowered alone. The faintest breath,
gentle delight, desire and beauty, fragments
of imaginary love - no words for this
delicacy and power. I think you might
have been my lover at the cost of looking
for love's gift, the power that I have lost.