It was Sunday 'round noon when I walked,
Through the gardens upon my own.
Touched by the sadness of knowing,
I should not be walking alone.
I see a young girl pick a pansy.
Smile with the scent 'neath her nose.
Tears still fall for Rosemary's garden,
As the door comes ajar we can't close.
Rosemary's garden from tiny seed,
Covered the barest of earth,
Spawned in the warmth of our hands,
Creating new love with her birth.
Carefully tended, nurtured, caressed,
Growing stronger each day,
Spreading lore into her heart,
From our generational way.
Each flower became a thought.
Each bud a smile yet to bloom.
Early thinking she lived in our world,
We didn't see she needed more room.
We noticed the buds were not forming,
Flowers the gardens don’t bring.
Everything died in the autumn,
We're hoping a return in the spring.
Lost, sought and finally discovered,
Scattered wild over the meadow,
Each flower living free but alone,
Rosemary's we just didn't know.
Surviving without guiding care,
Love’s hidden and will not show,
In the wind swept field is torture,
Where Rosemary's garden does grow.
Seven long years we gathered,
Flowers from over the meadow,
Seeking the bloom of Rosemary,
Growing from the seed we did sow.
The scents and the colours are mingled,
Out of reach in forlorn garden beds
What we feared appeared in the meadow.
Many flowers had bowed their heads.
Rosemary is the alias I use,
For a child we may have all known,
Seen in their garden of beauty,
Thinking like us, they have grown.
We lose them in some tragic reason,
Asking why, but no answer we know,
Why Rosemary lives on in our minds,
As a flower growing wild in a meadow.