The Village Rose

Nestled deep within a lane,

Where cottages in sunshine bask,

A single rose, with gentle reign,

Blooms vibrant ‘gainst a weathered cask.

It isn't grand, nor proudly bred,

No hothouse nurtured, pampered bloom,

But sprung from soil where memories tread,

A silent witness to life's loom.

The baker's daughter, bright and young,

With laughter light and eyes of blue,

Would water it with morning song,

Her dreams entwined with morning dew.

The cobbler, weathered, hands worn thin,

Would pause to watch its petals unfurl,

A silent tribute, from within,

A beauty born in his own world.

The postman, trudging through the day,

With news both good and news of strife,

Would steal a glance along the way,

A moment's peace in floral life.

The widow, lonely, stooped and frail,

Would tend it with a tender touch,

A symbol seen, beyond the veil,

Of love that bloomed, and loved so much.

The village children, hand in hand,

Would weave a crown of petals bright,

A fragrant crown, a fairyland,

A world of joy, where colors fight.

The seasons turned, the years flew by,

The rose endured, a constant friend,

Through summer's sun and winter's sigh,

It held its beauty to the end.

The baker's daughter, with silvered hair,

Would now pause by the weathered wall,

The rose, a memory, sweet and rare,

A silent echo in the fall.

The cobbler's bench stood empty now,

His tools lay silent, memories deep,

The rose, a symbol, somehow,

Of dreams that soared, then fell asleep.

The postman's steps, a fainter beat,

News traveled light on tired feet,

The rose, a witness, bittersweet,

Of stories whispered, dreams complete.

The widow, now with gentle grace,

Would rest beneath the churchyard yew,

The rose, a marker, in its place,

A love that bloomed, forever true.

The village children, grown and strong,

Returned, with children of their own,

The rose, a witness, righting wrong,

For life renews, on seeds it's sown.

And still it bloomed, the village rose,

A silent keeper of the past,

A fragrance whispering, as it grows,

Of beauty that forever lasts.

For in its heart, a story lies,

Of lives entwined, beneath the sun,

A village flower, reaching skies,

Where memories bloom, when life is done.