Flora
We mixed in the ash
With our bare hands,
My sister, my father and me;
Then planted in the standard rose;
It seemed apt;
She was called Flora.
Comments
This one doesn't rhyme or have any particular structure.
I'm guessing I'm on dodgy ground therefore, if I say that I like it and agree with Harry.
Might you then tell me that you took some random lines of prose and chopped them up?
Unexpectedly touching, John.
(Whether autobiographal or not)
And clearly brief.
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Martin Peacock
Mon 27th Feb 2012 14:00
Let's not think of ourselves as dirty old buggers, rather as having a proper lust for life eh? I like this boyo: it's short, smart and succinct. Perhaps one or two semicolons too many though?