November: Yet a single bloom
still flaunts herself defiantly.
A splash of red against the gloom
of a depressing dark grey sky.
A scarlet rose last of its kind
Contemptuous of the morning frost
as if on purpose to remind
us that the battle is not lost.
Until the last survivor dies
then winter can claim victory
Though we need not believe its lies
defeat is only temporary
Next year the rose will bloom again.
A promise which can’t be broken.
I'm thinking poppies (and I'm wearing red) ... serene and profound write Ivor. t x
Hi Ivor! The rose will always come back! Good Write! ! (10) ! Thad
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
If this is the Tara we all know and love, you're right - she's no shrinking violet! A rose in the snow, may she only grow more lovely with each passing day This classy lady with much to say! Cheers! Linda :)