The Musk of the Rose ….is Blown.
Come into my garden do…walk down this
narrow little path I made for you.
There’ll be a flower here…..winged victory…
secreting sorcery into the air
to suit your every mood…
when summer comes…
But now…the tree is bare…
The willow warbler lurches thru’ the air…
her tiny beak is scratching at the bark
for food.
The sodden lawns become oblivion.
Translucent phantoms raise their weightless fronds.
Come…disappear into a logarithmic scale..
of long forgotten Gaels and centripetal days…
…come sink into the spices of the Galingale.
And there…be close to me
beneath the eyelid of the fallen Rose…
and see…. northeast by north..
the decomposing leaves
return to feed the earth..
The Musk of Rose… is blown…
and Alfred* lies so far away…just bones.
Kristine Byrne. Jan. 2018
*Alfred Tennyson.