Prim as a prize-winning rose,

Diana exuded confidence.

She got the choicest parts in plays,

played the recorder perfectly,

and her intellect seemed as vast  

as the Sea of Galilee.  

No one knew she shucked  

on the word bully daily, running  

her tongue over the rough calligraphy  

of its horns until her lips bled.

At my First Holy Communion,

she laughed as the candle

I held wobbled like a liner

bouncing its way through an Atlantic

making playthings of vessels.

Joked I wouldn’t make it past 40.

Then back to the prim rose

blushing its redness in front  

of the headmaster keen to show off

one of his star pupils.  

I would’ve accepted an apology

delivered by crows. Never annoy

a crow unless you want to feel

the peaks and troughs of delinquent.

Get your ankles nipped at.

Watch a twig and bottle cap arsenal

dropped on you or your property daily.

Perhaps she saw a flash of crow wing

in my eyes and immediately went to red.  

Didn’t know roses don’t last forever.