The Dead Wilted Rose Tree

The Dead Wilted Rose Tree

The rose tree leans in next door’s yard

twisted limbs and bark charred

no bloom dares show its face this year

just brittle thorns and rusted fear

Once it stood in velvet dress

each petal posed in soft excess

but something changed beneath the bark

a creeping rot, a silent mark

The wind won’t touch it like before

no bees, no birds, no metaphor

its roots dig deep in sullen ground

where whispered secrets curl around

She used to clip its budding heads

and tie them up in silken threads

she’d hum and smile and speak to air

then stopped, as if no longer there

Now neighbours pass, avert their eyes

it’s just a tree, but something lies

in how it slumps and grips the wall

a thing unloved, a thing to fall

I sometimes stare through twitching lace

to glimpse its tired, accusing face

it’s just a rose, or used to be

but it looks too long, and it looks at me

Some say when her husband died

so did she, his beloved rose tree ceased to be

She could not love like she used to

Too many memories, too many thorns