O Rose

O Rose thou art sick. 
The invisible worm, 
That flies in the night 
In the howling storm: 


Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
(Blake)


A lovely red rose bush spotted in isolation on waste ground, now past its best. What a shame.
Extra is a collage of photo knick-knacks from a walk round the block in Stirling.