Heather Jephcot writes

The Rose, My Rose

I remembered her

as I looked out the window.

It was morning,

the sun was streaming in the door, the windows,

brightness, light, flowing mystically

through the enchanting green of the garden.

I remember her beautiful fresh rosy glow.

She was called Rose,

a second given name.

She grew up loving the colour red,

as bright and glowing as possible.

I remember her pointing out some of her childhood homes

all at one time on one property,

a flower farm.

She grew up among blooms,

mostly roses

and never lost her love for planting,

helping flowers to grow,

creating a beautiful cottage garden.

I remember her picking flowers

intent on choosing as much colour as possible

but not for herself

rather for others.

She picked before she went visiting

happy to be able to give a gift

straight from her heart and garden.

I remember her

but I never called her "Rose".

To me she was "mum." 

 

My Sweet Rose -- John William Waterhouse