Lucy's Garden

Lucy’s Garden.

She plants a rose, intent upon a dream
of sunny arbours in August gloaming.
A red rose here and over there, a cream
and between the two, a trellis roaming.
The roots have space a-plenty and to spare
with fresh decomposition at the base.
She whistles as she works – without a care;
the pattern of the leaves suggesting lace.
The bed prepared and ready for the rose
that takes but twenty years or more to grow
and intertwine their stems in summer glows
so many years until they tie a bow.
Her father dead in one hole down below,
her mother, under cream, refused to show.