The Yellow Rose
And the weather turns around
from pyrocumulous horror
our infernoed land is drowned
in flooding rain
and now a misty morning
for walking once again
after a scorching summer
of ash and smoke hazed air
I see the rosebush has survived 
for the yellow rose nods
smiles as if it recognises me
and murmurs
just for a moment
it stops me in my tracks draws me in
then its smile is in the curled petals
its nods in the zephyr of breeze
and I move into my day singing
my rose has the look of a flower
that is looked at*
acknowledged and loved
like the rose in the little Prince
- TS Eliot
