Creepers run amok over fertile ground
Roguish vines trip unwary feet
bored, curious, covetous
a few tree heads peer over the hedge
wearing derelict love nests in their hair.
A black rose struggles to open,
petals flapping in a fervid rain
Some bold buds try to wriggle out
pushing my naïve fingers as I struggle
to sustain an aura of bucolic charm.
Dark bodied passion to white sugary charm
The spectrum dangles in a torturous silence
beleaguering the retina with fugacious ink
stabbing me with those revered thorns,
scratching a talisman into my naked opulence
but I bleed more from their surreptitious strokes.
Roses are red no more once dead
but the callers never return to discern
wooing the fetching blooms till they wilt
The barbed rose bush remains my only love
Her dead leaves, all mine to bury and mourn
Her wanton weeds willing to wander over my ground.
14th August 2012