English Rose

She brought me here to listen
to the music of her life

To live
with the laughter and tears
of her old Liverpool home.

She brought me here to see
the beginning of her time
inside the warm cocoon of brick houses and English traditions

But everything I see is cold and dirty
bookmarks for her memories faded and frayed

Old laughter is a faint echo now
and tears shed so long ago are only salt stains
on the dangerous sidewalks of the street
of my mother’s old Liverpool home

Only a rose remains.

The bloom sways at the end of a long, bowed stem
Framed by a boarded window
Looking down at broken glass
in the front yard of my mother’s old Liverpool home.

It is an English rose, and it grows wild and strong
with roots deep inside the warm cocoon of rich English soil
Its bloom sways at the end of a long, bowed stem
looking across oceans and miles

To a life far away from my mother’s old Liverpool home.

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