Dead Flowers

I saw my favourite flowers today;
Fresh white roses upon a grave,
Shimmering slightly from the early morning dew
And wrapped in a soft yellow ribbon.
I could not help but be amazed
That someone not only remembered this place;
But had the bravery to visit it, day after day
Leaving yet another bouquet upon the grass, just before
The small white tombstone, still sharply edged;
Too young to be yet worn with age.
Staring down at this cracked grey slab beneath me,
Seeing the blackened remains of flowers left long ago;
I sigh softly and hope
For fresh white roses of my own.