A poem about love:
THE CARRBRIDGE ROSE
The Packhorse Bridge arches its back
like a grey stone rainbow
over the hard flowing river
hurtling past banks of snowy ice.
We explore chatting
holding hands ever so slight
as if young love though we are not.
Our pasts ensure we tread warily.
Not knowing where these steps may lead
we are in no rush to be fools … again.
I notice a winter rosebush
draped in a shroud of sparkling frost.
In amongst its withered blooms
a single red rose.
You notice its perfect petals closed
as if frozen alive
as if sleeping
as if waiting
as if a heart is still beating.