Stephen Philip Druce

The Gardener and the Rose

The gardener felt
inferior to the rose.

The rose, with its natural
beauty for portraits -
a blazing jewel in the dirt,

flaming without fire,
ice cool for the burning sun,

alluring to the bees, its sweet
perfumed scent, its eagle petals
that swooned with clutched
un-spilt raindrops, bestowed
from ballet clouds.

Then one day the rose got
too old. The gardener wept as
he cut it down -

the rose with the inferior soul.

The Murmur of the Goose Machine

Behind the shuttered rapture
the raconteur pours a diamond sun.

Did you hear the murmur
of the goose machine?.

As you slinked astride rackety
fruit stall - gorged on shrieked
spleen to its riotous belly,

did you clamour to such book flesh,
as trumpeting foxes leapt from
dead chapters on paper horses?,

did you warn the night fox
of the snapped twig?.

For the storm preacher, did you
run with drumming hounds upon
drunken daisies splashed in carnival wine?.

Or did you turn and face
the dust in the cruel wind?.

Stephen Philip Druce © 2017