Budds

Scarlet water trickles down, shine of the colour of roses,
like little, quant rubies, falling carelessly.
Fluttering eyes, longing and begging, for some sort of affection,
even if it was aberrant and unpleasant.
She lays to rest, in the unkempt walls, where bats are.
And for what? The selfish man?
Who never considered much more, but was so very desperate.

Sitting in the light room, pleasantly indulged in his practice,
watching on the little graces of house,
like the sweet cake and the warm tea.
She laughs and smiles and bows her head,
for ever blameless and shy, little darling doesn't know of much,
like a untouched, unopened modest budd.
But oh so delightfully boyish, with short hair,
and such charming, beckoning eyes,
so charismatic and brown, hypnotising and intriguing, he'd made up his mind.

All the wildflowers had rotted, crumbled and died long ago,
having been left there with the open budd,
having so hopelessly been given to a lover, but had never become a rose.
How sad he'd always thought like this,
all due to what he'd been born to think, convinced to do, God told him.
Saints confirmed that he should pick the budds,
not the roses, so he always did, because he was so very desperate.

Moving upwards, stretches his legs out, thanking mummy for tea,
and how its time he should be on his way,
but with the graces of the house not so far away.
He smiled. For the reason that now was time,
for the budds to open, so that she could pick all the flowers, ready or not.
Impulsive, indefinite, exiting the tracks,
towards where the unkempt walls had been picked,
ready for any of the budds he'd collected, and to his delight,
there was little reason to be desperate, it would take six years or so, for little Grace Budd.