Morning dreamtime
I cupped a dark rose in my hands at break of day
and the sun caught the early dew between her petals,
shining more brightly than the brightest morning star.
I woke, and my hands were empty,
but my tears shone also,
warming the greyness of the morning.
She is a flower of night,
climbing around my heart like a briar,
piercing my breast with her thorns.
I give of my blood gladly
because this bloom was not of my planting
but of the destiny that made of our lives a secret garden.
I water it daily
because I must keep faithful to what has been written on our hearts.
Thorns and weeds surround it,
stones thwart the purpose of its seedtime,
the sun cannot warm its bowers.
Sometimes I vow never again to try to tend it,
but each day reminds me this promise may not be broken,
for it is not between this man and this woman
but between all love and the greatest love of all,
that one day will clear away all weeds,
make all gardens blossom,
and bring my dark rose back again,
to catch the dew of my tears between her petals
and brighten my nights with the rose-red mid-day of the sun.
Written waiting for transport into Baghdad from Daura oil refinery
It is dedicated to Rowan, a 19-year-old Human Shield from Lebanon, whose name means “early morning dew”, giving me theimage of the opening lines;
but she is not its subject.
