rose

For a period of 2-3 weeks during mid-spring, these roses brimmed the front garden of a house I walked past everyday to and from the station. The house is made of  brownstone, and is awkward to look at, in that it is of an Edwardian style, but the freshness of its materials and its lack of tall shady trees implies a much newer home. There are statues of cherubs on the lawn, but they too are yet to acquire the charm of age, so instead do nothing but contribute an implicit tackiness. 

For a period of 2-3 weeks though, all this was forgiven - the ten or so thorny stumps which had lined the white picket fence had seemingly blossomed 100 big magnificent roses overnight. The colour of the roses are difficult to describe, and even in the photo above the shade is not quite right. Perhaps the best way to imagine this particular blush of pink is to picture Marie Antoinette biting into a macaron and then ascending into heaven. Now multiply that by 100 and you can get an idea of how inundated with satisfaction I was each time I walked past this house. For a while I considered leaving a note with my phone number in their mailbox so that they could enlighten me with what species the roses were. I never did so, I'm not sure why. Now that the roses have for the most part dried and wilted, it doesn't feel so urgent.