Waiting outside the holistic health clinic (honestly, I should just move in I’m there so often. Was there yesterday, back again today too, bless them). Shattering midday light on the old roses. Quick snap, unedited, unplanned but burnished light haloing the flowers must be honored. 

My favourite place in the world was a sunken rose garden, box edging and laurel hedges behind. With an old arbour, cool shade sitting on cold ancient flagstones. To me it was where God lived. After all, I’d much rather live in a rose garden, under the sky, filled with scenty old flowers and rabbits ear plants than a chapel and I’m sure I’m not the only one.  

They took the arbour down and they don’t prune the roses now. But it’s there in my mind. And the roses know. I have grown roses since I was tiny, red and white rose bushes. 

I love roses so I find them, choose them, grow them everytime I can. We have had roses in every house we have ever been in. Watching them grow and blossom is one of my treasured waist height and wondering joys.