for Brenda

Both had come with no gardener but the soul;

I had myself expressed them in weariness,

Like the last drop of milk from your tired breast.

The red rose was no rose for me.

My black rose shone in a silver dawn

In the throat of the wind.

On the tongue of the wind

I taste your spirit;

I will bear you on my toes

To the roof of the world.

by Barry Tebb

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