Life of a rose

Approx 3pm Saturday

The sun has finally broken through, drying my petals from the deluge of rain we received all morning. I heard The Gardener say

‘Why don’t we pick a rose for Mummy?’

Click went the clippers. I then found myself in the tight clutch of a little boy’s hand, waving wildly as it carried me inside and presented me proudly to The Gardener’s Daughter.


It took her a second to stop what she was doing and look up – when she did I saw what all the fuss was about, it was like she melted on the spot as soon as she saw us together.

‘Thank you sweetheart’

She smiled, reached down and held me, admiring my tight bud, sunset pink in colour and the soft downy grey feather stuck to my stem.

She brought me to her face and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes.

‘Mmmm, sweetheart smell this …’

The little boy leaned forward and breathed in. He smiled too.



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