Roses should be chosen for smell
(for Dave, on our 10th wedding anniversary)
Roses should be chosen for smell:
not the sugar-pink smell of generic romance;
not the faint stale smell of petrol,
still lingering on the petals from the servo
where they were bought as an afterthought
on the way home;
not the whiff of guilt
seeping through their weak attempts
to propitiate...
No: roses should smell of
whispered conversations in the dark,
long after the lights have been turned out;
walks to and fro between home and the train station,
framing the day's labours;
newsprint and coffee on a Saturday morning;
a flickering screen
watched with knotted fingers,
waiting for a glimpse of a heartbeat;
summer nights spent
desperately passing a screaming newborn
back and forth, back and forth
in time with the tennis on the TV.
Roses should smell of a
first date
first kiss
first flat
first loss
and every second and third and fourth,
from then till now,
encoded in the scent of each petal.
