Poor rose what wrong they’ve done you.
They’ve bred away that hardiness
So native to your ancestors
Found still in feral cousins.
They’ve left you delicate, prone to disease
To black-spot, mould and mildew,
To the aphid and leaf-roller,
Totally dependent on their care.
The pleasure of the eye their end
With not the least concern for you
Whose beauty they exploit.
Taken in the fresh-faced bud.
A briefly-favoured kept-woman.
To be discarded when you fade.
Supplanted by some younger bloom.
Poor rose.