The First Rose


Waiting for the first rose
For Rigantona
And the summer

After the rush of bluebells,
The too-transient apple-blossom
After the late spring squalls

And now the springing leaves
That green the woods
With deepening summer shade

Still I wait for the garden rose –
Its bud swelling to ripeness –
To open and to offer

The grace of long summer days
And balmy summer nights
At her dedicated space

Once again to her as always
As the season blooms
Around her altar.

Author: Greg Hill

Awenydd/Poet, Cultural Critic

2 thoughts on “The First Rose”

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