Mary Rose

This poem was inspired by Keats 'Old Meg'.

Mary Rose

 

She wore a scarf and carried a bag,

The Villagers called her a ‘dirty old hag’.

 

Her long dress, it freely flowed,

Each short step was painful and slowed.

 

Mary was the old dear’s name,

And everyone thought that she was insane.

 

So harsh and hard were her features,

She lived alone with the woodland creatures.

 

Many a night

She sang till light,

Enjoying the moon,

Then slept till noon.

 

Passers by couldn’t understand

Why Mary thought her life was grand.

 

As happy as can be

She sits under a tree,

Making chains with flower stems

Only stopping every now and then.

 

She gives them away to people in town,

They seldom accept, just sit and frown.

 

Never accepted wherever she went,

Away she was always sent.

 

Too fierce her looks,

No one cared,

Nobody approached her,

They hadn’t dared.

Inside she loved and lived her life,

She had no worries,

No troubles or strife.

 

She didn’t care what others thought,

She didn’t judge,

She wasn’t the sort.

 

The flowering petals of a soft, sweet rose,

Mary lived her life as she chose.

 

Then one day, alone on a hill,

For a minute the wind stood still,

The golden flowers, together they wept,

When for the final time, our Mary slept.

 

The villagers never knew what they’d got

And over time they’d all forgot

 

But the land where the green, green grass still grows

Will never forget their Mary Rose.

Author's Note

Thank you for taking the time to read my poem.

Reviews

[Tina Louise UK]

wonderful piece, really enjoyed :) x