Warming rays

Warming rays

The poet laying staring at the Sun, it's warming rays across his face, a Rose appears in his minds eye, his heart begins to race

For it's not a simple Rose, it's beauty's beyond compare, elegant, soft and glistening, a Rose that is so rare

Petals of the softest Velvet, so tender to the touch, it holds the sweetest nectar, the Bees want it so much

Deep hidden within its folds, lays the most delicate shapely bud, the colour of deepest Crimson, as dark as passions blood

This Rose came from a garden, once strangled up with weeds and vine, until the lonely poet found that Rose devine

He cut away the smothering weeds, he gave the Rose the room, so she could see the Sun again, he sat and watched her bloom

From a Rose struggling to grow, so thirsty for a drink, to a Rose of such beauty, one look would make you blink

Blink in pure disbelief, that a Rose could grow so fine, amazed how she fought her way, through her past weeds and their vine

He looks up into the sky, not a single cloud in view, he hopes the Rose in Sunshine, he hopes she's basking too

Hoping the Sun is warming her, he hopes she feels his love, pouring down like warming rays, just like the Sun above

Ron