The Last Dog Rose

Time is cruel, its measure forms,
Such barriers against our progress,
Stripping the world of syllables,
And rhythm until its simple blanks,
Are all that’s left to break a line,
Flowers wedded to design not space,

And if plants can muster thought,
And memory they must feel pain,
At loss, a grief for the ripped up,
Hedgerow, Autumn’s burning,
The unplanned fields of generations,
Turned to smoke and ash and lime,

Here’s our last pathetic Dog Rose,
Clinging to dead wood as if in flood,
It fears the current to the sea,
And salt which scours dry earth,
When artificial tides have turned,
And left the land for structure,

It drops its pastels to the stream,
That takes them greedily,
To drown or burn, no matter which,
(The project has no preference),
And we’re clear of them for ever,
Except for the wretched dealers,

Offering a precious stem for love,
A flower for your feelings and your bed,
It will sink beside you overnight,
Until disposed of in distractions,
Wrought from the pretend world,

And all are gone,

And all is gone.