English roses

Still no pictures, but words can conjure a thousand images!

At the weekend a friend brought me English roses from his garden. Large headed, with tender stems, cloaked in tiny prickles. No picture could do justice to the smell! From sweet lemony to dark blackberry, intoxicating body and mind. All with special names, all known by sight (to my friend) Even the air around them is heavy with perfume.

With each day, the blossoms drop: pink, peach, pale yellow and sherbet. And each day I scoop up handfuls of cool silky petals, and press my face into my hands, inhaling the potpourri of delicate smells, distinguishing new scents each time. Sometimes I put the handfuls down again, as they retain a fallen beauty, besides their smell, that requires salvation from the trash for another day (or two).

The scent evokes childhood memories of worm houses, tiled with broken found china, and perfume, made by mashing rose petals with rocks and water, under the shade of a weeping willow tree. It reminds me that nature often knows best, and that modification isn't always a good thing.

The blooms sag wearily now, heads too heavy for their delicate necks. But their mysterious beauty continues to draw me to them. Today I was trying to show Marli how to smell them, holding her close to enjoy their air. She held out a tiny finger and touched a petal, so delicately, I was amazed! But then she decided it was better eaten. Perhaps if I didn't know better, I would taste one too.

I have taken photos, and will share them when my computer issues are resolved!