Tuesday Poem: Pruning roses by Fiona Kidman
Pruning roses
for Joanna
That year we lived in France
I nipped home in July, the cold
set of winer, to prune the roses,
or so I said, although there was
other business too. I oiled
my shiny shears and set upon
the annual task, slicing
clean on the diagonal:
they're a semi-circle of white
Icebergs planted in friable soil
stretching beneath the green native
trees surrounding our house.
There were four of us there
on the day of their ritual
planting: my daughter, her daughter,
her brother's wife and me.
We hummed wedding songs
in soft anticipation of the first
buds and then when they came
you wore a scarlet dress
and married your love
and we danced on the lawn.
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