I can smell a rose here in midwinter snow,
A rose from far away, from many months ago.
The rose, she bloomed in summer, and in her velvet curling folds,
Hid the source of a scent like none I’ve ever known.
I remember roses in the summer time that bloomed,
Perpetually, like a dozen eager youths,
Dressed in Sunday clothing, frolicking down the lane,
In times gone by – though all the youths have since then died.
Petals still lie in the ground below the rose,
Frost lingers on their tender summer hues.
A thousand icy crystals glistening in winter sun,
And melting in the sunlight, passing as the news
That the summer petals are falling, that they twirled as they fell –
I wish I had not ignored them, had not only the memory of a smell.
Here is a poem based very simply on the fact that I like the smell of roses. If ever you have the chance to smell a David Austen rose, take it. It will be wonderful. There is a very good reason that roses have become a cliche for beauty.
Alas, they do not bloom in winter.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic