Poems by Anne Knight
The Last Rose
The roses now dried
Shrivelled dry, but whole
Umber light
Dry crisp petals fall when moved
Just two
Looking at them to see
Blue Moon’s colour purple
Turning the dry crisp
On the other side colour of mauve,
With strips of burnt orange
I took a look at the pink again,
Gently opening petals
Saw that the pink inside petals,
Were soft like silk
The last roses of the year
by Anne Knight