She lays flowers by a green painted fence.
Others lay them too, but not so often now.
Some tell her, stop, but she knows he can sense
she lays flowers.

Today she leaves tulips and a quiet vow;
she’ll keep him close. A meagre recompense –
that will not pacify the heads that know.

Done deeds stay spent; encased in lost laments.
No second chance; no turnaround allowed.
The green stays green. The fence remains a fence
where she lays flowers.