1992 The Rose

The beginning, deep, deep down below,

Beneath the surface of reality,

Below the land of the giants, it develops

From the womb ... Fertilised.

Its arms spread, grasping, grabbing at the small remains of slimy creatures and shredding skins, it feeds ...

Nurtured by the loam.

Like a newborn baby to its mother, its hands suckle the moisture,

Nourishment from the solid darkness

Minerals, protein, life ...Survival

Together they help it push upwards towards the surface,

Where it rises, swaying, swaying - vulnerable to the tread of humanity.

As an infant abandoned by its parentage, it faces life alone

However, nurtured by the sun,

And the maternal earth ... It continues to grow.

Growing, rising, maturing from a seed

It spreads its graceful form

Like an elegant bird about to set fly, its beauty is beyond impressive.

Its body is blessed with moisture intended to replenish the health of its form,

Travelling up to its summit, to savour its head,

An artisan of all Mother Nature.

The giants survive, as its delicate breath releases oxygen for them to respire,

Till wait ... No stop, the sound of feet

Pauses, but passes, it breathes.

Small piercing thorns protect its body,

From the receptacle hands of the giants

However images of beauty, colour, peace and love disguise this faithful armour.

Its linear body freely sways, like a dancer whose music - the wind

Flap its wings uncontrollably in the breeze,

A subconscious performance by nature.

But when the wind turns cold and the land changes, and autumn inspires new life,

Its head hangs low and its soft, over - lapping scales,

Wither, and drop to their deaths.

Its natural beauty no longer revived by the warm, healing rays of the sun,

Is desiccated by the minister that raised him.

And he is returned, as a corpse, to the womb for rebirth - continuity and timelessness in nature.