I have a number of roses in my garden that flower despite the amateur level of care I provide. They are mostly older varieties that have been here since the sixties. Many are richly perfumed and have the most amazingly full bloom.
But that’s not what this poem is really about.
English rose The beauty of the English rose is not in her scent of sweetness, although it is a welcome relief from the world’s bitterness. The beauty of the English rose is not the softness of her petals, although they bring feeling back to hands of callouses and metal The beauty of the English rose is not in the way her barren stems survive the cold, those winter months when life is on hold. No matter how many invaders try to bring her down she wears her flowers like a crown. A crown not worn for your pleasure it is the bees she invites to her hidden treasure. The beauty of the English rose is not for human poem or prose, her beauty is for her alone.