It takes several seasons for a shrub to reach maturity and roses are no different. For nearly five years, I’ve waited to see the glory of our ‘English Wedding Day’ rose. A rambler with multitudes of open-faced blooms that bud in buttery tones then age through apricot to ivory – poetic but true nonetheless. There are thorns that catch the gazer unawares and a honey of a perfume to savour.
Everything that slows us down and forces patience,
everything that sets us back into the slow circles of nature, is a help.
Gardening is an instrument of grace.