In the beds that face the sun
I have grown roses
And now they are gone.
The first was yellow
Unlike any other one
An African, yes, long done.
The second, to the West
Was a classic red
Pungent, rosette blooms
That marched determined on
Through the year from June
And I never should have left
The hips on it, unprunned.
The third, to the East
Was delicate white
Fleeting, with scent so sweet
Geraniums and snapdragons
Mark the grave of each.
And now in the bed
That faces the sun
I see no plot for a new rose
Only Borrage and Geranium.
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