Dancing with Roses

The comfort my late mother received from a walk in a garden. Sadly she had dementia.

    Dancing with Roses.

The path beckoned her,
to weave among the scented colour,
where bees hummed on nectar quest
and insects climbed to lofty leaves
in green delight.

The sun warmed her,
with solar rays of gentle heat,
from azure sky where swallows soar
on delta wings and larksong rings
in meadow air.

The peace soothed her,
in nature's world of simple truth,
confusion slipped from muddled thought
and hid from tired and worried mind
behind a smile.

The world found her,
it offered safety's gloomy cloak,
to wear 'neath medication's rule
and asked how passed the recent hours. . .
she told them. . .

"I was dancing with roses."