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Little Pink Roses

by Audrey M Scott


Exquisite fragrance of Mignonette
wafting on gentle breeze,
slow movement of the rocker,
expands a moment tranquil.

The postman most curious
to the source of this beautiful scent,
not knowing camouflaged in green it
grows directly beneath the letterbox,
it’s minute flowers an orange tinge.

At the verandah edge
a tall thorn-free rose bush,
its pale pink buttonhole blooms
perfect with tight curled petals,
its foliage forming a delightful screen
from the street,
as does the blue Plumbago hedge
at the fence.

Were these little pink roses really worn
in lapels of local gents attending the balls…

A small fruit tree each side of the
short path to the gate, delicious
red and gold skinned apples,
the other a quince, its fruit scrumptious
when bottled, and tasty in homemade jams.

I visualise Gran
waving to the postie,
her needles click clicking as she
continues to knit.
Over her knees the patchwork rug
knitted in earlier years, its
green lining slightly faded,
she having also dimmed over time.

Pot plants growing in painted kerosene
tins evenly placed along the wall, neatly
break the emptiness of verandah.
The gentle breeze rocks the rocker chair,
my heart missing the acquaintance of
my grandmother, though she sat, with
me in a “playbox” at her side when I
was too young to remember.
She was no longer around when I sat rocking
in her chair, my dolls on my lap.

But I could look at the little pink roses, pull
them to my nose, feel the smooth velvet
of petal ….. and think of her.

Now, even the rose bush is gone. I have
a porch of my own and a mirror telling of
my own fading.
I am going to meet my Gran again,
but the time is not yet.

11/20/2001

Posted on 11/19/2001
Copyright © 2024 Audrey M Scott

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