I left my love in a broken field where no flowers grow.
This, written on a card with a red rose lying on top, I found on my doorstep.
Who left it or why means nothing to me.
I popped the rose in a small vase, dropping the card in my pocket.
I left for work and the who drove me mad all morning.
There are so many fields where no flowers grow.
The unknown author must have a place in mind.
Over lunch, the word ‘broken’ struck me, lodging itself in my mind,
until I came up with the graveyard.
That is the broken field where no flowers grow.
I am the ghost the rose belongs to…
© Anita Dawes 2021
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