in my neighbour's garden.
Today they are admired by "new" people
for the old lady has passed.
She used to love to watch the roses sway
on warm azure days in the the month of May
but they are ancestors though appear the same
just like butterflies and wasps hovering
and the robin perched on an urban branch
more ruthless than his form suggests.
Now children's voices fill the springtime air,
the lonely woman...is no longer there.