The blossom season has finally drawn to an end. The hawthorn, white beam, and rowan were the last to come out, but now they too are gone, faded gracefully away into thick coverings of green. I am sad, because I love blossom dearly, but it has only gone to make way for the roses, and I think perhaps I love them even better.
Across the road from our house is a great bush of small, delicate, pale pink roses. They tumble over the wall in a great mass, eager to see the world; and as they poke their cheery faces out of a thick green jumper of foliage, their enchanting scent spills out and delights those delight in them.
In our garden we have a red rose. It has been blooming for some weeks now, and it's a lovely strong colour, but somehow I cannot seem to care for it. Perhaps it is too proud, or too self-sufficient, but at any rate it gives no feeling of warmth.
I think I shall call it Jane Fairfax: "... her temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control; but it wants openness. She is reserved..." Yes, indeed. Thank you Mr Knightley, I couldn't have put it better myself.
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