Rose (September)

That buds and breaks in due course. That was in a time it is impossible accurately to imagine. That the tall Emperor sent as a message, though it may only be a fable that he sent the message or that he was tall.  That followed the Silk Road out across the Wine Dark Sea. That you love one another as I have loved you. That opened like the heart of the Sufi Master. That the Sultan pinched between two fingers after he captured Constantinople. That is all that remains to remind us of the great houses of England that fought and fell. That blooms in and out of season. That became instead symbol of a Virgin Queen, she who prayed to the Virgin Queen. That is the question. That bends, that blows. That the visionary of Felpham saw was sick in the howling storm, in the time of the Mad King. That the wife of the short Emperor General planted out in her backyard, as though to memorialise those who died in battle, at his whim. That went bottled over the mountains to enhance Paris. That scatters, that dies back. That of which we cannot speak we must remain silent. That was the last word the film director stole from the media magnate in the name of fame. That the Duce sniffed for photographs on the cliff edge of his own ego. That was a very good year for city girls who lived up the stair with all that perfumed hair and it came undone, when I was twenty-one. That still lines the gardens of palaces as sign of power, acquired over time. That is feint, that is full. That is opaque. That Morticia pruned for stems, metaphor of TV separating us from nature, left holding the wrong end of the stick. That only an Australian would turn blue. That can be my next tweet. That stands in a vase in my cottage full of books, well read, and antique vinyl, one week after a mediocre federal election. That is that.