The English Rose: Jessica

Washed by that English summer rain, dressed to admire,
The soil so rich, so dark, holding you for my desire,
By yourself amongst green bushes and harmful insects,
Thorns cast at me, thinking I am that cruel bastard one expects!

As the rain softly and slowly stops, its tears are caught,
Holding those drops like you hold the briefest thought,
Delicately poised to fall at a breeze’s caress,
Like them I roll to plummet with no lasting success.

A heart so thorned, so bare, so ugly, it must hide,
A petal too few, a thorn too many, look inside:
“He love’s me, he love’s me not!” each petal, leaf taken
You plucked yourself but that sharp heart doesn’t lie broken…

With each pinched glance you bloom beyond that earlier peek,
The more I watch the more I write, lost in your splendour I grow weak,
Let my lips taste you, I’ll kiss that thorned heart with blood,
Plant your heart and trust within me not there in this mud.

With tender petals that glow delicate mystery
A slender stem that curves with youth filled beauty,
You bloom like a rose but enfold like a tulip,
Casting all out into the distance of love’s worship.

Left to mark a passing, freshly lying on the ground,
Yet I am not allowed to touch or help what was found,
As if you were that white lily I can’t help but morn,
Pain is pain regardless how grave, silly is its scorn.

To take you in my arms is cruel, the darkest of my pursuits,
I cannot tare or cut you from your beliefs or roots,
You are all and nothing, that rarest of the rare,
That single rose, ......... that fairest of fair…….