A picture of wild roses with red rose hips
Image credit: Tobias-Oetiker

Trimming the roses

gloves on, feet bare

standing on a bed of dead leaves,

wind nipping at my ears,

inexpertly wielding shears.


Snipping short soft water shoots

holding sticky spent rose-hips,

red in my hands —

stabbed through my gloves

by a dry thorn,

only once.


With winnowing wind shivering

the leaves of the cool-scented mallee

in whose scant shade I stand,

I wish:


May I be as tough as rosewood and still

bloom in warmth,

showy and intoxicating,

perfume hanging in the air, or

-thorns at the ready-

wintering in hardwood

with tresses bare

breathing moonlight singing through the air.

Freelance Writer|Emerging Author|Shrews Untamed Podcast

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