My mother grew roses
whose names
belonged to a different era -
Apollo, Montezuma, Mr Lincoln,
whose petals and whorls
gave off such reflections
you'd shield your eyes
in mid-summer
as you walked through
the front garden.

They grew like aristocrats
in rows and circular plots
behind bricks
and grey paling fences -
those magnificent presences
that somehow gave
our suburban lives
a different kind of meaning.
People returning home
from the factories
in the afternoon
would stop to smell them
or comment on their beauty.
"Have some," my mother
would offer. "I have plenty."

She cared for her roses
with the same attention
you might in rearing a child -
watering, feeding, pruning,
knowing what needed doing
and what time of the year
it had to be done.

My mother never studied
history or mythology,
never debated what
immortality might mean.
Her home was her castle
and she was content
to work among roses to the end -
remaining, in her own realm,
a woman who was neither
servant nor queen.