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A day to remember, a clear, warm morning after a small evening storm and then as the sun got higher the moisture in the soil joined with the moisture drifting in on the easterly from the South Pacific and we had a day of air so thick with humidity you could sell it by the slice. Walking Mutley at 6 o'clock in an empty suburb still asleep and the sweat was dripping off my nose to feed the occasional fly that avoided my swat. Back home for an early shower and a ponder in the garden and then the decision on this sunday to do sod all. The day of rest if the wife let me be.
I dragged out a deckchair and sat in the middle of the main flower bed in the shade of a eucalypt and read 3 Men In A Boat, the funniest book written in the english language, for the umpteenth time until lunch and then went back outside to stare at the flowers and drift off with the hum of insects and song of birds. All through the day though due to the humidity the air was thick with the scent of roses. I have 15 planted in 3 seperate beds that run under the lounge and study windows in front of the house that are now in their second flush for the season. The humidity kills them. By the end of a humid summer they are ravaged with blackspot to the point that it's lucky if each plant has a dozen healthy leaves but each winter after a pruning back to 2 buds they shoot up invigorated in the spring to surprise with their strength and health.
The rose above is a Pink Iceberg with a very delicate scent that encourages you to bury your nose deep down in the flower to get the full effect. I often walk around with a yellow nose as i spend so much time with it buried in the pollen of all the flowers.
So much prose about the rose is nauseating tat written for valentines card but i've loved this one below for years in the days of the old country. If drifts a bit towards sentimentality but being the bucolic romantic i can often be i like it. It's by Eva Dobell and was first published at the end of WW1
High On Brockworth common
Where the west winds blow
Mass the sweet briar roses
Drifts of fragrant snow
Creamy, dreamy roses,
Fresh as mornings birth
Bridal veils of sweetness
Flung across the earth.All amongst the roses
Stray the browsing sheep
In a sea of roses
Lost and hidden deep
Tangled, spangled roses
Rioting at will
Heaped in warm, white glory
Over all the hill.Starry through the twilight
When the sunset dies
Gleam the wan-sweet roses
'Neath the fading skies
Twining, shining roses
Filling all the air
With the rich dim incense
Of their evening prayer.
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