The Red Rosebush
By Jack Fables
- 30 reads
There was a man who owned a flower shop. Each month he would sell his lovely blooms and at the end of the month he would balance his books and count his money. All his figures always added up nicely. One month he had once again sold all of his beautiful flowers. All but one it seemed. A lovely red rose that stood all alone in a pot at the corner of the shop that no-one wanted. And who no-one had bought throughout the whole long month. ‘Whatever shall I do with a charming fellow like you. With no love and no mistress in life.’ said the old shopkeeper to himself. ‘Go home and plant me in front of the window of some fair maiden,’ replied the reddest of roses ‘And I shall be sure to give you many splendid blooms still each loving summer season long.’ He promised the old man dearly. So the man took him home and planted him in the flower bed in front of his little girl’s window. She loved the deep red rose and he in return loved the fairest of little maidens. Both their hearts were true and each and every spring he would bloom with the most wonderful array of red, red roses in front of her little window. The summer of their love was true and he would always shower her with the most lovely red flowers throughout each warm loving summer season. ‘My love is like a red, red rose that’s newly sprung in June. My love is like a melody that’s gently played in tune.’ The wind would whisper to her loving heart as the splendid flowers bloomed for her true love only. Sometimes our deepest dreams do get fulfilled. Sometimes love seems to blossom forever. Red roses, red hearts and red kisses of love. Bloom forever true beautiful flower of life. Love is many a splendored thing after all.
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I was drawn to this little
I was drawn to this little story, because roses were my mum's favourite flower. She would tend them in summer and knew exactly how to treat them. Back in the 1960s her original roses would have such a delect perfume that would linger. Funnily enough mum's roses never suffered with greenfly or any other bugs...I often wonder how she protected them, but never did discover her secret.
Your poem reminded me of her. So thank you so much, because I do miss her, even though she's been dead so long now.
Jenny.
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