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.