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