Licking the Dew off Roses
(for Laurie Lee and his daughter Jessy)
When she woke, at six in the morning,
gurgling, he’d creep silent from his
warm bed to lay her gently on a shawl.
Always the same way round they’d walk
the garden, listening to the peonies
and poppies open. He had never heard them
stretch and squeak until he walked
with her safe in his arms, laughing,
as she leaned to lick the dew off roses.
Even now she remembers frosty mornings
wrapped in a rough blanket, his flat vowels
curling in a tobacco tang, the stubble of his chin.
Oh why did you never walk with me, Daddy,
safe in your arms, under a waxing moon,
so I too could lick the dew off roses?
by Sue Hubbard
from Everything Begins with the Skin
Enitharmon Press, London, 1994