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Outside the dining room window
separated by a canopy 
of grape vines and a small patch
of grass, was a corrugated iron
fence weathered to a dull glaze 
of rust and covered by a trellis 
on which a thick profusion of roses
grew and sent their delicate perfume
into summer afternoons.

My Nan's Paul Scarlet roses
were her pride, a groaning weight
of riotous red spilling over the fence,
an eye feast of color seen 
through the window as we ate
our meals. ‘It's a good show this year’,
she would proudly say as we sat
taking in the rich mix of foliage 
and flower, deep green and red.

Six years old, I took it in
and shared my Nan's delight.
I would thrust my nose deep 
into the centre of a bloom to get
its full scent. Even when I had
a friend around, I always
pointed out my Nan's Paul Scarlet
roses as if such an acknowledgement 
was a necessary preface to play.
I was so proud.

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