Beneath the Forgotten Roses
by ANTHONY HAYES
As I walk through the grey mist of night
I come across a bed of roses,
brittle with a dark essence.
Each one slowly crumbling to the rough earth,
below, as I look up I see
an old grey stone.
I lift my frost bitten hands and wipe away
the years of decay; my eyes open wide
to a small engravement –
Was killed by hanging for the murder of
thirty four women on 2 August 1912
Here lies Dave Thompson Jr.
As I read the name, my life flashes before
my eyes; it’s been one hundred years
since I killed them.
Tomorrow my grave will be gone,
but no one will ever forget the horror,
that lives beneath
the forgotten roses