by Helen Openshaw
The old, tired rosebush pushes
Its flowers out late this Spring.
Limp, half-hearted sighs in a May
That is bright and cold to the touch.
Last year it flowered twice,
But the energy lacking now
Seems to send a late apology,
The blooms hurried, sour,
And gone too soon.
About the author:
Helen Openshaw is a Drama and English teacher, from Cumbria, England. She enjoys writing poetry and plays and inspiring her students to write. Words in Green Ink Poetry magazine, Words and Whispers magazine, The Madrigal, Fragmented Voices, Forge Zine, Roi Faineant Press and The Dirigible Balloon magazine.