When Rose Petals Awake Poem by Alistair Plint

i)
Dried rose petals
fascinate me
The delicate death
of blooming
colour and scent
has an unsurpassed beauty

Similarly, empty streets
sharing architectural
wonderlands
in the direction stones fell
grasping historical stories
that walked over surfaces
for decades;
a raconteur
I've dreamed of studying
for silenced days
(and years between them)

Sometimes, poetry is intercepted;words splashing about
like sugar cubes
causing tidal waves
and ripples
drowning
in a cup of tea
brewed
-left in the pot
longer than an expiry date

ii)
Had moment to picnic
this morning under
a large oak tree
speaking wisdom
from it's trunk
like dying leaves
in autumnal mist

One leaf fell
like crumpled paper
wearing unused words;
knowing
in the reading
someone surrendered early

Branches left shadows
accross the ground
in a web
of indifference

Sat there
staring at nothing
reading each word
dropped through tea
and roses
-hoping to find
living, in the beauty of it

iii)
Found acorns;
jolting memory verses
in hats of kind phrases
brought to the forefront of my
mental theatre's
screen and Dolby system

Took them for a walk
-in my pocket
through Tuscan streets
to the confectionary

Sipping at coffee
with a smily face
whirled in the froth;
leaving those acorns on the table
felt apt -
next to the salt and pepper
facing the window
gazing towards a
quiet unobtrusive lake;


where, under the table lay
a lonely, dried, pressed rose petal.


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