The Yellow Rose



The Yellow Rose 

And the weather turns around

from pyrocumulous horror

our  infernoed land is drowned

in flooding rain

and now a misty morning

for walking once again

after a scorching summer

of ash and smoke hazed air


I see the  rosebush has survived                                            

for  the yellow rose nods

smiles as if it recognises me

and murmurs


just for a moment

it stops me in my tracks    draws me in

then its smile is in the curled petals

its nods in the zephyr of breeze

and I move into my day singing

my rose has the look of  a flower

that is  looked at*

acknowledged and loved

like the rose in the little Prince

  • TS Eliot