Mother Poem by Roy Ballard

The rose that scents the summer day
and flaunts her colour to the bees
knows nothing and has naught to say;
her only talent is to please.
With fickle blooms and ready claws
she wanders where the rough wind blows;
her children left with hips and haws
abandoned in the wild hedgerows.
She leaves themn there without a sigh,
in swollen, orange bulbs they lie
but like their mother, by and by,
they grow to flatter every eye.