The Rose

If you ask me
I am better than a real rose anyway.

For a start, I am stronger, more rigid,
I can hold my own weight when I stand,
I am not prone to a single nasty disease;
No powdery mildew,
No black spot,
No infestation of aphids,
I am probably more water-resistant,
Less likely to yield in a downpour.
You never have to clear up after me
Or feed me fertiliser
Or even change my water,
In fact, I require no maintenance whatsoever.

And that’s all before I even mention
My pièce de résistance,
Or should I say heat de résistance,
I mean, that’s literally what I was designed to do.
Did you know that I can withstand temperatures
Of over six hundred degrees Celsius,
Now, that’s some party trick!

Yes, I know, I am unlikely to need that particular skill
Here under the air-conditioning unit,
But it’s reassuring to have it anyway,
You know, just in case.
And besides, it’s not as if I am the only
Plant or flower to be kept indoors.
Of course, it might’ve been nice, just the once,
To feel the afternoon sun on my petals,
The rain run down my stem and over my leaves,
Perhaps collect into little beads on my thorns.
Maybe even a light frost
That thaws later in the morning
To reveal a new radiance.

But, there are just too many downsides
That come with all that blooming.
So, no, you won’t find me after a storm,
Lying there on the wet grass
Decomposing,
Rotting like some half-eaten
Tossed aside apple,
Losing my hue.

Talking of which,
I know that silver isn’t technically a colour,
But have you seen how shiny I am?
I am like an exquisite necklace,
A straight-out-the-mint fifty pence piece,
A pewter tankard,
Or even a tea set at The Ritz!

Secretly, I do sometimes wonder
What colour I’d have been if I were real.
Apparently, every colour symbolises something,
A particular feeling, a different meaning;
Perhaps a bright yellow for friendship and kindness,
Maybe an elegant white
On display at a graduation or christening,
A stunning, romantic red?
Or, of course, a purple, fit for royalty.
Yes, I think that’s the one.

But no, I am more than happy as I am
Stood here in the pen pot
With all the other items;
The pencils, a stapler, a shatter-resistant ruler,
An eraser, and that oddly oversized paper clip.
Unlike them, I am not handled all that much any more
But that’s to be expected
I’ve been here for years!
See, there’s another of my advantages;
Unlike a real rose, I’ll last forever.

I’ve even got my own chemical symbol: Al
How many other flowers can say that!
Yes, there may be some very specific conditions, but essentially
I am 100% recyclable
And apparently the whole process only takes around sixty days,
Think of that - I could be thrown away
And be just like new within two months.

A real rose, on the other hand;
Chuck that in the compost
And God knows how long it takes
For all its nutrients to filter through the soil.
And then, of course, it has to actually grow again.
And here’s the worst part;
It may not even be a rose the next time!
It could become a stinging nettle,
A fungus, giant hogweed,
Wild garlic!

And on that note,
I’ll admit, I am quite partial to the odd waft
Of perfume when one of the girls from Telesales
Walks past, or even the aftershave on that guy from Marketing.
And I am not saying that I wouldn’t have appreciated
The chance to give off a little scent of my own;
Maybe just the once to have had someone say
“Wow, come and sniff this rose”
But I’ve heard that most roses
Have lost their fragrance these days anyway,
Apparently scientists have worked out why;
“Historically, rose breeders have opted
For pretty petals over pleasant perfumes
And as a result, the rose's natural scent
Has faded over time”.
So, knowing that real roses don’t smell
Half as good as people think they do
Means that I don’t feel half as bad
Not having a smell at all.
And that’s all I’ll say on the matter.

I’ll be honest, it does get a tad lonely here sometimes,
Especially in the evenings and at weekends.
It’s in those times that I can’t help wondering
What life would’ve been like as part of a bunch.
I reckon I’d have been given to someone on a first date,
And then talked about for years whenever they recounted the story,
Or perhaps, instead of a bouquet
I’d have been on a beautiful rose arbour,
Or part of a larger group
Climbing up the side of some spectacular house
Overlooking the sea,
Or covering a bench in a National Trust garden.

But it’s fine,
Because I’ve always enjoyed my own company.
And anyway, being here does have its perks,
Especially if you like gossip,
You won’t believe some of the things
I’ve overheard in this place.
I think it helps being so close to the photocopier.

And even though it’s a bit depressing,
Another game I like to play
Is to think right back to the beginning,
You know, on the roll.
Perhaps there were some good bits I’ve forgotten
But I just remember it all being so
Uninspiring,
I mean, some of those that came before me
Were used for such tedious things;
Lining the inside of a baking tray
Or catching drips in an oven.

I did once dream
That I covered a turkey at Christmas,
I helped to unveil the big meal
That everyone had been been waiting for.
In fact, I can still picture all those happy, smiling faces.

But anyway, my fate was much grander, as you know.
For a few short hours I wrapped
A cheese and pickle sandwich on rye bread,
But then, straight after lunch,
The magic happened;
Under the bright lights of the canteen
I was held in some nimble, skilful hands
And I was formed, shaped, moulded, forged and sculpt,
I was pulled, prodded and pinched,
I was twisted and I was crafted
Until I was perfect.

So, in summary, that’s why
If you ask me
I am better than a real rose.
You did ask me, didn’t you?

David Thackwell