June Rose
He didn’t know
as he shuffled between huts
eyes slitted with fatigue,
mind numbed by duty, dust
settling in his wake;
as he smelled something out of place;
stopped, sniffed, waited;
as a drift of rose scent curled
from the cooling garden, defiant,
out of place, tended by silent,
invisible Afghans. A simple thing, yet
affecting, beyond reason.
I didn’t know as
hose in hand in June half-light
mesmerised by droplets scudding
over pastel petals, I wondered
which flowers grew in Lashkar Gah…
if any. Roused by the scent
of water on warm, rose bloom
I wished to parcel it and despatch
a touch of June garden to his
gritty desert.
We didn’t recognise, until later
much later, the magic of
improbable, fragrant
serendipity.
sally this is really well done…causing one to ponder and yet maintains its beauty
Thank you Brian. The amazing thing to me was that the garden is there and the plants all thriving…who would imagine there were roses in Lashkar Gah?
Absolutely beautiful!
thank you Sandra
This poem is wonderful. To ponder on deserts rose, & reading as a grown ups lullaby.
The unexpected rose in a Laskakar Gah garden captures the imagination and once involved with the sentiment is compelled to read to the end. I love this poem and I am so glad I encountered this blog.
Thank you Claire. It was a little bit of magic we were able to share when he was so far away…
Beautiful story you’ve woven. Beauty is found in the oddest places.
thank you…it was a weird experience. It does underline the part gardens play in our lives though.