THE ROSE

By Peter Woodgate

The clouds go scudding by

He waits with hopes held high,

The single rose clutched tightly,

Against his racing breast

Would show sincerity of heart,

Nothing but the best.

 

The hands sped swiftly round the face,

Of the watch that showed his fate,

With head bowed low and slow of step

He turned back to the gate.

 

The hinges needed oiling,

And groaned as the gate swung wide,

I know just how it feels, thought he

And then he quietly sighed.

 

It was morning, his mother woke

With breakfast by her bed

And in a vase the single rose,

Nothing more was said.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate