Gosh, the seasons have been weird this year. Here we are at the beginning of November – the beginning of winter, if you go by the Celtic calendar, which I often do – and I’ve just picked a pound of green tomatoes. (They’re not going to ripen now.) Just enough to make it worth making a batch of chutney, I reckon. And here’s this rose still blooming away. It’s always the first to flower. The other bushes, pink roses, are still going, too, though the climbing rose I planted earlier this year has, I think, finished.
I’m trying to notice and appreciate and not worry too much (worry leads to despair; despair leads to a complete inability to do anything about the problem I’m worrying about), and this is my favourite of the roses in the garden; it has a lovely, gently lemony, scent. So here we are. A white rose for All Saints’ day.
