A rose, planted by my father’s hands, so long ago.
Less fruitful now, thinner, less flowers.
“It’s old,” said the man,
said the old man, my father.
“It’s tired. It’s near the end of its life.”
Who’d have thought it?
A rose, growing old, tired, dying?
My father did. He understood, he knew.
Brother Rose.
And my dear, brother father.
Andrew Moss
Andrew writes: 'My Dad, Ted Moss, died in his 70’s a few weeks before his birthday. As that came around, far away as I was, I had no idea what to do for my mother. At the last moment I sat down with a pen and this poured out, and duly went with the last post. Being in the Third Order of Franciscans, and familiar with Francis’s “Brother Sun”, he would have been touched to be Brother Rose. Even if he joked about the thorns. The poem is in memory of my Dad: born in China in 1918, a thinker, linguist, family man, philosopher, writer poet and published author, civil servant (up to Under-Secretary), diplomat (up to British Consul), and army officer (up to Acting Lt Colonel in WWII, serving in Intelligence under Montgomery). That's all a bit of a mouthful! What would matter to him would be to be called a Christian - then a family man, thinker and writer. He was also, of course, a gardener: "The Planter of the Rose".'
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