Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Where the roses grow

The front garden is full of roses in varying degrees of bloom and decay. The beds need mulching, the bushes need dead heading and I never water them, but somehow, miraculously perhaps, they survive. They grow, they flower. They smell lovely.

These photos were taken in the dying light of a 30 degree day. At a quarter to eight, the wind was blowing and a cool change had swept a bank of grey rain clouds across the sky.
 There are three of these underneath the loungeroom window, in ascending height order. The smallest one rarely flowers and probably needs mulching desperately. I don't actually think they're roses at all.
 These big blowsy roses sit underneath the bedroom window and have sent up huge thorny tendrils that keep switching on the sensor light in the slightest breeze. A few days before Christmas, one of these, a tight tiny bud, appeared in a plastic water bottle on my nightstand.
I love these yellow roses but they've always bothered me after hearing that they imply jealousy. Stupid to worry about Victorian flower messages but deep down it curbs the joy somewhat. I'm fairly sure the white specks on the closed bud are bugs of some kind that I should spray. But I won't.
 This isn't the colour of this flower at all. This photo makes it seem lipstick pink but it's richer and layered with orange. I just couldn't capture it.
These coloured roses remind me of my stepmother. I think there's a photo of her somewhere holding one.

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