First there was the comet,
a snowball of space dust
tossed and forgotten.
No one knows its name.

Then came Rosetta,
a very sleepy robot
on a very long trip.
Now Rosetta is waking

And calling home
in a voice we imagine
to be chirpy for one
so poisoned by radiation.

You know my poetry,
so first you will think
I am the comet, lonely
and older than the moon.

Or the rocket ship
on her suicide mission,
sending messages through
the unimaginable darkness.

But Rosetta makes me think
of a rose, a hard little bud
that unfolds in spring
after a long season of sleep,

And love is a red red rose,
we know fror Robert Burns,
that will come again
though it be 10,000 mile.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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3 Responses to Rosetta

  1. warmginger says:

    After reading this last night, I was thinking you could create a daily poetry news programme. The days top stories but in your wonderful verse.

  2. shanyns says:

    This is very good, you bring a heart to the ‘news’ that is sadly lacking. A poetic heart that is very needed, and welcome. Well done!

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