Poem By Eoghan Finn
She knows her own
To trim, to clip.
Most perfect form
From root to tip.
When we dance
Green waves, she sways
Below her breath
She softly says;
“The finest lines
Of many kinds”,
A find! A wind
To guide some blind
Lot to hope, no call, no chord,
To the point of Crocea Mors.
From under rock and folded wings,
Comes procession; pillows, rings.
But flower kept- kept til Spring,
And only then when swallows sing,
When daisies march to man the earth,
When raven’s loot but shy your worth,
You tilt your neck, begin to show
I love you rose and how you grow!