New growth on the rose bush: leaves redder than any of its blooms, like the flames from that trash fire that gave it such loving licks.
The rain is past, but slugs still roam the yard in packs like slow-moving wolves. More cream-colored roses have opened. It’s quiet.
The first roses to open after the deadheading have already collapsed. In the shady back corner, yellow hypericum dangles over the compost.
The lonely barking dog goes on and on, day after day. A newly opened rose on a bush I think of as ancient, though it’s younger than me.
The rosebush is tinged with a bit of rose: leaves on a new sprout. Across the way, a mapgie hops to the top step of a ladder and flies off.
The rose’s leaves shine white in the sun. A white butterfly detaches from one of them and zigzags into the sky—the antithesis of autumn.
The great, cream-colored roses glow in the sun, even those beginning to turn brown. Three carrion crows—their nasal cries.
Somehow I’ve failed to notice till now that the small hydrangea next to the rosebush is also in bloom—one low, slightly absurd flower head.
The rose bush in the garden has unfolded its first set of sexual parts. I’m dueting with a dunnock via an audio recording on my phone.