Hello ‘symptoms of eloquence’ - as we were talking roses, I thought I would try to show you my small, unimpressive specimens. I’m not over keen on roses, well I like them but they don’t move me like little wild flowers that grow in the grass between mowings (a lengthy time in our yard), nor as much as the small purpley blooms a rosemary bush produces but I like them nevertheless. I admire these because they’re stoic and ancient, they’ve been in the garden and withstood at least 6 occupants, have been here for over 40 years, get nothing from me other than the occasional trim and still valiantly bloom each year. They have the most delicate scent and their colour (not quite captured in this photo) is an antique shade of reddy-pink. I like to imagine the first couple in this home, planting these hopefully and nurturing them, sure that they would see them grow. I think they did and have a feeling they left in their older years when the house and garden became unmanageable. If flowers could talk, what stories would they tell? Prince Charles might be able to tell me something about that.
