The Sorrow Roses

Sorrow stone
wrapped in purple velvet, softly

smooth cold stone
of jet, polished, singular, alone stone

softly wrapped in purple velvet
	wind in the hair
	panic in the eyes
	rough breath
	the climb, the push, the throw

the letting go
and a wakening
of starting blocks, new track

so much looking back
she stumbles
from blindness in the roads

but the garden in the heart
	still tended
	still grows

roses of sorrow, her sorrow roses
	red for love
	red for blood
	red for a morning sky

all the petal moments, falling

diminutive tree, toy echo, with its coloured
lights wink the time of year -
fallow time in the city - wet
streets and mud, blustery
days, freezing fingers

loam in the palm
green grass
and water
	water with so much peat in it
	it rusts as it moves

in and out of our lives
like sustenance
living metaphor of the ground
we never touch again

stones at the base of the stream
black, and cold
unmoving, bloom in the dark unseen
wrapped in the water, softly
stone river, her river of stone
Demeter's Fields
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