Our Ramparts Of Roses Fall Apart

to my sister, Sharon

STREW on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew. Matthew Arnold, Requiescat

our ramparts of roses fall apart;
loose stitching holds the petals

though it was of gold

when we were new

entirely of gold

that we played in the afternoons

that our Kingdom was roses, roses
watered by the green garden hose

by our Grandfather's kindness and

we were his roses, roses

our Grandmother's cherished, few-

and soon we will fall apart too

though I hope a long time from now

and only when the moon is

the shade of roses roses

and God plays His own hidden tune

in His own Time illuminating

our stories' forever and evers

in a Heaven of roses.

mary angela douglas 23 march 2015