Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Rose Bushes

My nail polish is chipped,
but I am cheery,
chasing the high of my garden defying the odds and blooming before my eyes.

There is a child round my waist,
chipper and cherub cheeked,
asking for ice cream,
with pleading brown eyes that I recognise as my own.

Then there is you, Blue,
prying the boy from my body,
careful not to crush the rose bushes with his flailing legs,
as you take him off to the freezer,
like you used to do with me.

I am so satisfied.

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