My love is like a blue, blue rose
that blossomed lost amongst the weeds,
and few have sought her where she grows,
to find this beauty no-one heeds.
But I would make my garden there,
where first her blooms began to wave
in winds that stroked with tender care
the loveliness her maker gave.
I’d pave the path to fantasy,
and make all tracks, from corners four,
lead to the central ecstasy
of knowing her whom I adore;
and gaze alone, for no one knows
the moonlight where Fiona grows.