poem

Clive McWilliam: SECOND PRIZE Rose Mining

Gardens are short-lived in the chill
of Flin Flon, Manitoba.

But at dusk each husband comes up
from the ground, with an armful
of roses mined in the chambers
that copper and zinc left behind.

They used to come back blackened,
now they’re flushed with rouge
bouquets, dusted with pollen, brush
petals and scents from their clothes.

Peer down this mine and smell
the flowers a quarter mile deep,
a huge rose-bowl that the sun
and the bees know nothing about.

Keep the shaft door closed,
so the buds don’t crave the sky
and the gladdened wives
don’t bloom before it’s evening.