((My creative writing class had a good time deciphering this, let me tell you.  Just for reference: no-one’s killed anybody.  Ten points and a muffin to anyone who can even remotely interpret it.  (No fair if you already know what it’s about – you know who you are.) ))

White Roses

White

is the garden,

a blooming masterpiece of roses,

Mama’s roses,

soft, living, nodding roses as big as tea-saucers,

with petals like silk,

crystal-white,

angel-white,

innocence-white.

A high, white wall circles the garden

like an embrace,

enclosing the rosebushes

and the two little girls:

tiny masterpieces of white frocks and ringlet curls,

hair ribbons and lace-edged pinafores,

two dolls, playing with dolls.

Within the garden, it is tranquil,

a warm breeze whispers through roseleaves

like the seraphim choir,

whispering a cradle-song

in counterpoint to the high, light

voices of the little girls.

The elder looks at the angel-coloured roses and sighs,

smiling, and knowing,

Mama planted the roses.

Mama makes them grow.

Mama loves us.

The feather-soft fingers of the air brush against her smooth cheek

like a caress,

she beams at the sky and the sky beams back.

Her little sister prods the warm earth with one bare white toe.

She looks at the Heaven-high wall and sighs,

knowing,

Mama built that wall,

Mama keeps us here,

Because she loves us.

The wind rustles the baby-soft frizz of her hair about her head,

like teasing.

White is the wall,

White are the roses,

White are the frocks and ribbons of the two little girls,

bridal-white,

virtue-white,

chastity-white.

The little sister looks at the roses,

white, so dazzlingly white,

crystal-edged against

the mirror-blue of the sky.

But why are they white?

Why are they all

White?

Why aren’t there red roses?
Do roses come in red?

As though listening

to a voice, music, nothing, maybe,

she turns her head and her gaze

is drawn, inexorably,

to that wall.

That high, sturdy wall.

Maybe the red roses are out there.

She sighs.

Her sister looks up, looks at her, and her eyes,

so clear, the same open blue as the sky,

are puzzled.

What’s the matter, dearest?  Don’t you like the garden?