Rose poem

I saw a rose today
each petal stark with contrast,
beaten into pulp against a backdrop
of winter. All life had gone.
.
It's later this year
the tentative touch of spring.
The Nightingales have been seen,
winged into the village on tired strokes.
When the rose blooms again, they'll be gone.
.
Their calls will fill the evening air
with the heat of foreign places,
a scent of summer-to-come.