The roses I had ever known were short shrubs, small blooms in deep red violet, even smaller pink buds (locally we call pitimini) growing in our little quaint garden and I was always saddened that they wither so soon when they reached their fullest. The petals would start to wilt and then fall one by one to the ground before I could get enough of admiring them.
I imagine the rose gardens of Manderley in Cornwall or the rose brambles in the Botanical Gardens of Brooklyn or the wild roses growing in abandon in the classic, The Secret Garden. The different pale hues and some darker tones that I don’t normally see, unless I go to a shop of imported flowers with the staggering price tags.
Such is its natural beauty, but overgrown big roses aren’t a natural sight in this place. I would have to travel far just to see how it grows on its own element, how it turns and blooms over the changing seasons. What a lovely sight it would be and I yearn to stand before them.