Queen Mary’s Rose Garden

Tall gold-tipped gates part like
a story-book, to an eternal Sunday.
A family walks down the royal path,
through a pergola where pink roses climb.
The father cuts one for the eldest child

who takes it carefully, as if it is
an ice cream or one of the queen’s
own jewels – intoxicated by the scent
of petals oxidising in the heat
and her perspiring hand.

Back home, the walls bear witness
to the war waged in the names
of Clapton or Hendrix as God,
between a stunted crop of swastikas.
The girl lifts her creased souvenir

before her like an easter candle
wrapped in tulle and satin bows,
as she ascends the iron stairs;
until the shit and drought baked streets
yield to a rosy sunset shot with pink.

I'm really pleased my poem about growing up in London in the 70's has been accepted for inclusion in a forthcoming anthology called  'Around the World: Landscapes & Cityscapes.' Thanks to Steve Carr, from Sweetycatpress.