I see him walking by the flower beds
with purpose and with pleasure, stop and choose
the frowzy 'Anne Boleyn' whose heavy head
with petals bruised all beauty gone, must lose.
I watch him cut each time one fades and dies
discard the overblown, no longer sweet
cast out the others with deceit and lies
and with his eyes, mine no longer meet.
Reflected in the mirror - which once was hers
he smiles and walks towards me with the secateurs.
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Author:
Erinna (
Offline) - Published: October 8th, 2017 08:07
- Comment from author about the poem: I wrote this in the summer on one of those rare days in Northumberland when the sun shines, I was sitting in the garden and thinking about deadheading the roses. I leave you ... the reader, to think through the symbolism.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
Offline)
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