ROSE.

 

 

A solitary figure walks down the aisle

Banked high with flowers on either side

Smiling his Sunday best Sterident smile

Recalling the day she became his bride,

Carrying her simple wedding bouquet

Cornflowers, roses and anemones.

This is what makes a good marriage, she’d say,

Standing on tip toe and taking her kiss,

We’re always meeting each other halfway,

He’d bend to her, gladly accepting his.

When he was as tall as a tale, and young

His flesh filled his skin like breath fills a lung

He’s shrinking now in a younger man’s suit

Just like the rose, shrouded in cellophane

That begins to die the moment its cut

Their wrappings will soon be all that remain.

His empty clothes on an Oxfam shop rail

The steam cleaned remains of a life, for sale.

The check out girl with the stud in her nose

Doesn’t respond, but he talks anyway

 Takes his money as he proffers his rose

Gives him his change, gives nothing away.

She watches her watch and anticipates

Leaving work early, and seeing her mates.

This rose, he says is for my Rose, my wife

The sweetest flower, the love of my life.

Her shop soiled eyes don’t look like they’ve heard,

She wouldn’t want the old timer to see,

But as he’s leaving she swallows the words

Hey, mister, give her a kiss for me.

Every year, he smiles, since we tied the knot

She’d never forgive me if I forgot.

Later, lighter than bird bones, he brings

The last of his strength to his fragile frame,

Bends to her beneath angel’s flightless wings

Pats the cool earth fondly, whispers her name

A rose for my Rose on Valentine’s day

Here as usual, meeting you halfway.