November Rose.
Pink and white and mauve.
Solitary, still,
among the rosemary and late autumnal gorse.
Sea winds have blown.
The first frosts have frozen the short grass.
Spring and summer are memories,
midwinter an echo in reverse.
November Rose for the dying.
November Poppies for the dead,
who cannot sleep
but stream towards new birth;
whose pain outlasts
the bitter Flanders earth.
Brian Taylor
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/11th-hour-11th-day-11th-month/
