I never understood why the red rose
grows so well
in that small corner.
Or why it was called ‘Dublin Bay’.
I planted it where the big fern used to be.
You had to help me dig out
that massive old root.
You made the work seem easy.
Afterwards we sat in early evening sun
eating luscious olives and drinking
cold white Pinot Grigio
while we watched swallows scoop the hayfield
and we listened to jazz,
maybe Thelonius Monk, or Charlie Parker,
and I made some simple supper,
probably risotto.
And now when I look at those
deep red furled flowers as they open
I think of you, and I remember.
when you gave me those
golden grasses in the little black pots.
They need potting up, or planting out,
but there’s no room for them
in my small garden.
They are beautiful,
waving like unkempt hair in the breeze
and every time
I look at them I hope
they will survive.
And I think of you
and remember
you gave me that elaeagnus
for my birthday in winter.
It is still in a pot
because I thought I would move house
and take it with me, a gift
I didn’t want to leave behind.
But I didn’t move house
and now it’s huge and
outgrowing the big tub
that I can’t even shift
and there’s no space to plant it out.
Every time I look at it I think
I should have potted it up again
and I remember that garden centre trip
in the freezing wind
and I think of you
and hope the evergreen will survive.
And every time I look
at the rose
I remember that evening
with the jazz and the swallows
when you said you also have
a Dublin Bay rose in your garden.
Another of those coincidences
that we have discovered from
our too-long-separate lives.
Whenever I look at those unfurling flowers
I think of you and
I wonder at the naming of the rose.
