Cultivated Wild Roses

... and other oxymorons!

If you cultivate wild roses
are they still wild?
When your child grows up
he is still your child.
Today, my son,
halfway to threescore-and-ten,
in my heart and mind,
was a child again.

Now he's home from his op,
survived a general anaesthetic,
and my mother-hen-worrying
seems, even to me, pathetic.
But, tomorrow,
when his wife is back at work,
I shall be on hand with TLC,
I shall hover and lurk.

Chances are, he'll not need me,
I can't fix a sore jaw,
and, in truth,
he's not a child any more.
It's really for my own sake
as much as his,
that I'm here nearby if he wants me,
not at home with my head in a tizz.

poem © Celia Warren 2014

We continued heading eastwards today, stopping off at Romsey, Hampshire, to visit a National Trust property (and get added mileage out of our membership). It was very busy, as, apparently, June is THE month to visit the amazing rose gardens at Mottisfont. These were among my favourites, and I was pleased with the composition: it does what my school art teacher taught us years ago … leads the eye in and around the picture, and back around again and again. I love wild roses. Wish I could blip the scent of other roses ...