The wild white rose

The wild white rose is no more,

lost, save the odd petal clinging

to yesteryear’s bloom, while the fallen

litter the matted grass and iron soil,

lifting the gingery shawl of parched

beech leaves with yellowing

linen flashes, their glory spent,

left as the plaything for breeze

and bored feline paws.

The wild white rose is no more,

no one remembers him,

not even I.

8 thoughts on “THE WILD WHITE ROSE

  1. Wonderful poem Nigel, I can both see and smell the Earth of autumn and the last petal of the rose. Watched it myself and felt strongly about it. I guess the him is the Duke of York.
    Reading about that rose it has its first origin as symbol for Virgin Mary and symbolises light, purity and innocence. 😊
    Either way, it is beautiful from bud to decay and you write with such love about it.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Like all things associated with the White Rose, it will come back stronger Nigel. Nice poetry and it is raising thoughts of the War of The Roses. I have always had a closer affinity to white than red.

    Liked by 1 person

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