The world's last rose



And on a little hilltop on tiny Scottish isle
Grew the world’s last rose.  Her name was Peace.  She’d been there for a while.
She’d seen the changing seasons and the animals of old.
Many battles had she witnessed.  Many stories she’d been told.
 
And now the world was ending and people gone away.
She’d held the hopes of human heats.  She’d heard the lowly pray.
She’d seen them through the gateway from the old world to the new,
And now it was her turn to leave, her petals to renew.
 
But in those final winter months, the ground had bitten hard.
It held her roots so tightly in, she could not move a yard.
The doorway to the higher realm was close and yet so far.
The night sky, high above her, held the last remaining star.
 
It shone its light down dimly for the sun had all but gone,
A shadow of its higher self that, elsewhere, brightly shone.
As her petals fell, she wept with sadness and she smiled.
She’d stayed that final winter for the last remaining child;
 
The final soul to cross the border, leave the old behind.
He’d almost died of cold and he had almost lost his mind.
But in the darkness he had smelt her fragrance on the air.
And though she could not speak in words he’d known that she was there.
 
He’d stumbled and he’d crawled towards her, feeling for the new.
And beyond the end of end times he had found her and gone through.
She’d saved the final child as the old Earth faded fast.
And now it was her turn to leave this shadow land at last.
 
But still her roots were fixed and would not move within the ground.
And in those final moments she gave out a tiny sound;
A cry so soft and faint as to be not a noise at all,
But all across New Earth, the sound was echoed proud and tall.
 
It was heard across the planet by a thousand trillion ears,
The final sign the ancients had been speaking of for years.
The heart of every human being answered with a prayer
And in that final ending flash, the rose, no longer there.
 
We pulled her through, the final soul from shadow land to now.
The miracle of oneness at the Old world’s final bow.
And now the rose of peace is here, there and everywhere.
She lives in every single thing.  Our world is made of care.
 
12th April 2011 © Simon Welsh Poetry