The Ochre Rose

The rose bud in my garden,
was of a beautiful Ochre.
It was singular and laden,
a cauldron of joy,
A shimmering light of hope.

My eye, observant and admiring,
kept note of it, as each day,
slowly passed by.
I nurtured it, and the mire that lay,
to see it smile.

One morn, I saw the bud,
had bloomed to its full display,
a youthful vigour and exuberance.

I thought let me pluck and
place it in a vase,
lest it dries and withers away.

As i pinched the stem,
my hand, I withdrew crying in pain,
and remorse, looking at
the thorn that had pierced the flesh,
and the exotic Ochre rose.

- Tony Dass

The Old Woman

She sits on a chair,

By the flickering light from a tallowy candle,

Her eyes darting- to the grand old clock,

And then back again to the oaken door.

The moments freeze in a silent prayer,
Shattered by a chirruping cricket.
Far away sounds a plaintive howl,
And then all is calm and quiet again.
Her eyes pressed close in wrinkled folds,
She leans forward on the creaking chair,
And almost...hears the distant sound,
Of a phantom footfall on a forlorn path.

The frail frame has waited thus,

For days that passed and those to come,

Beside the flame of the guttering candle,

Which waits to be snuffed,by the gentle breath of time.

Mary Nandini Beschi
Copyright ©2007 Mary Nandini Beschi