Did the bush survive when it lost its long stems
or shrivel from the theft of such diadems?
Did it know the outcome for that scented bouquet
would cause blood to run red as beaujolais?
And that the action of each piercing thorn would
one day bring all men to mourn?
Or did it gladly meet its expiration sentenced
for history’s most vile coronation so when
it gasped its last rhizomeous breath it
gracefully greeted its justified death?
Did it realise as the royal blood mingled down with
the aroma of that perfumed crown nature was
sent into disarray at the horror of such foul play?
And what of the gardener? Did he presume that
the bush would flourish, grow and bloom and
bear its fruit with equal scent as any blessed sacrament?
For sap and petal to ignore such treason and
blithely continue in each season and thereby
ignore its lament at such sour discontent?
And what of the hands of the crown’s designer? Did
he wish he’d picked a bush much kinder than
the treacherous barbs that nipped and bit at
his fingers and was he surprised at how long
the poison lingers when once the thorn has
made its attack?
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