Summer here is a bit of a fantasy.
It goes like this : monsoon-like rains begin in early April and continue nonstop until the time when such things might be on the seasonal agenda, e.g March. Punctuated by the occasional teasing day of hot sunshine, this means that for the most part we in the West of the UK spend our summer days bogging around in wellies under grey skies, attempting to ‘manage’ an encroaching sea of vegetation that threatens to engulf our houses and swallow our cats up whole.
Here is my friend, the unruly and generous Alzheimer’s Rose. He doesn’t care, he just falls all over everything else, dementedly throwing out luminous blossoms, glowing before dawn, after dusk, and often till Christmas. He just goes on, his perfect petals hugging deep, warm hearts , scented somewhere between honey and paradise.
He’s like my Dad all over. Who always shared the best bit of his egg with me, especially on grey days….