Roses

In May and June, our entire neighbourhood breaks into a rash of roses. They are everywhere: they cover the walls, the garden hedges, the balcony railings. They hang over me in thick heavy bunches as I cycle past, their fragrances mixing with the saltiness of sweat and sea breeze.


All imaginable colours are represented, from fleeting shades of white and peach to brutal vital reds that just won't let me break eye contact.


I love them. They are strong, they are fearless, they are beautiful, they are soft and brave and undaunted. They move me. They are alive. They are a living moving multitude.


I look at them, and I think of a classic of my childhood. I think of the Little Prince and 'his' rose. I think of how he felt in the rose garden, looking at the living multitude. He was sad and disappointed. 'His' rose was no longer 'unique'. And I think: what a load of mysoginistic brain-washing crap!