They Called Her Rose

They’d seen her, that morning, by the church;
arms full of flowers for the altar, as she’d crept
through the backdoor to the vestry.

Took off her shoes and coat, but left her hat –
blue with orange flowers on. No hybrid teas,
no calla lilies, had she brought. Instead –

Ladies’ Slipper, Queen Anne’s lace, clover,
and sweet celandine; survivors, as she, by God’s
good grace...the sun and the rain, and a bomb
site – wrong side of town.

Came afternoon they’d tracked her down; outside
her makeshift home – a discarded length of tarpaulin,
they trampled new shoots, fresh and green

took off her shoes and coat – but left her hat
blue, with orange flowers, on. And in the church,
next morning, candles burned to wish her God speed

but sunlight through the trees danced on the great,
rose window – shone its own holy glimmer of goodbyes...
her name whispered by thistledown as it blows.