The Roses Poem by James Hart

Twisting their way up the old metal frame
In the garden at the back of our place
The wild rose meets up with the cultivated one
Each granting the other-one space

One is red, deep red-coloured, red like blood
The other is pink and white like skin
One is large and imposing like a goddess
The other is curled up and lies open like a fin

One has sharp thorns that bite and tear the skin
The other seems harmless tranquil in its beauty
Butterflies visit and hover around then go
As if they know that beauty will decay