English Rose

After one early spring day in London,
The kind that has the after taste of winter,
I now see why roses grow in England.

Their leaves are hard.
Their tough stems are like frozen rope –
Almost wood.
Their thorns come from an attitude –
A willingness to fight.
Their buds are solid
– Like living stones –
Until the moment they let go
And blossom;
Unfolding their softness, even to the cold,
The dreams of sunshine made real
Offering the ungraspable
In petals that can be touched, plucked
And rubbed against your cheek,
Offering a scent
Originating from the diamond in a sparkling dewdrop.

This flower patched onto the chest of rugby players.
Climbing the bricks of an empire,
In it’s birth, in it’s glory, and in it’s shadow.
Gracing vases on tables,
Echoing paintings painted more often than we know.
Scattered before the steps of the newly wedded.
Laid at gravestones.
Carved into the crevices of stone cathedrals.
And sprinkled onto bed sheets.

Looking into the warm promises and chilly reminders that spring in London speak
I can see why roses grow in England.