I grew where English roses grow, in hedgerow, field, and glade,
Beneath the sky’s forgiving blue, where none had cause to fade.
My petals closed in modest bud, my thorns stood sharp and true,
And in the sun’s embracing warmth, my crimson promise grew.
But hands that should have let me bloom, with whispered words drew near,
Soft voices wove a tender lie, and stripped away my fear.
They took my thorns, they clipped my stem, they bore me far away,
And in the dark, I felt them press where no warm sunlight lay.
One hand, then two, then three, then more, they turned me in the light,
Admired the colour of my skin, then passed me into night.
And when the dawn crept pale and cold, I lay upon the ground,
A fallen thing, a broken thing, where once I stood so proud.
I called upon the gardener, the keeper of the land,
But he just turned his hollow eyes and waved a trembling hand.
“The flowers fade, the seasons turn, what can be done?” he sighed,
And left me lying where I fell, alone and cast aside.
Then others came, with robes drawn tight, their petals kept from view,
They said, “No storm has passed this field, the earth is fresh with dew.
No hand has marred the garden’s peace, no blight has touched the stem,
And should you speak, you wound yourself, you must be still like them.”
But what becomes of England’s fields when all her flowers fade?
What happens when the hedgerows bare no buds in sun or shade?
When every bloom is plucked too soon or left to wilt unseen,
And every path once bright with life is shrouded in between?
Shall we let strangers bind the rose? Shall foreign hands decide,
What flower may grow, what wind may blow, what truth must be denied?
Or will the earth recall her own, and thorns rise sharp and free,
And England’s garden bloom once more, unbowed, unchained, and free?
(By John Shenton)