English Rose

The English Rose (end of a dream) I once met an English rose, slightly frizzled at the edges. Her eyes was as green as the Atlantic sea, this alone should have been a warning, ‘cause I know how untrue the sea can be. Her voice sounded like tinkling bells and her artistic hands could to wonders. Embraced we slept in the good tiredness of exhausted lovers. But in heaves of love she often whispered another man’s name, it filled me with foreboding. I rang and rang, no answer, went to her house, she wasn’t there, her neighbor said she had gone to Spain and she mentioned a name I had so often heard. The good woman saw my tears, hugged me and whispered. “She is not worthy of your love.” Years went by I saw her at a supermarket’s check out. Her bloom had gone, no longer a rose, just a woman with a bitter lined face carrying a bag of grocery.