on a hot summer day’s end (word picture)
I sit on the terrace. It’s been sweltering and humid all day. I’ve kept the doors and windows closed so it would stay nice and cool inside the house.
Now the sun has disappeared behind the hill, although the sky is still high and blue and hazy clouded. It’s cooled down some after a five-minute-summer-rain. My skin feels sticky.
I drink endless glasses of water. I feel restless. I wish the flies would let me be.
Snatches of poetry run through my head. Words that adequately describe the feelings of sitting on the terrace on the evening of a hot summer’s day, watching the swallows dip and weave, listening to the blackbirds singing, feeling flies settling on my sweaty skin and wishing for something to happen. I cannot remember the poems, nor the poets, only flashes of their work.
The red-pink roses look good against the clouds gathering on the horizon. The goldfish in the pond move lazily just below the surface. There is no wind down here, although the clouds are moving closer fast enough.
I love this place, and yet I’m restless. Will I ever be satisfied with what I’ve got?
I hope the swallows will be able to stuff themselves tonight. I like swallows. I don’t like flies.
A plane cuts its way through the sky, sunlight glittering on its silver skin. It hums along in eager pursuit of a different place to be. The swallows stay put, close to their nests, even though they zip through the sky on their fast wings. The goldfish don’t zip. They just drift.
The edges of the clouds are white, tinged with a rose-golden hue. I hope the swallows and the planes appreciate how pretty they are.
Roses – who can refuse them? I love all flowers (and taking photos of them), but this post is about roses. Because there is something quintessentially beautiful about them. Even their shape is beautiful.
And the way they seem to have more petals than is possible – there are just layers and layers and layers of velvety petals.
That smell… When they open up and you put your face close to them, there is that sweet, wild smell of hot summer and beauty, of longing and soft touches, of humidity and adventure.
And they grow in such an abundance. Reckless numbers of budding roses climb all over each other, each growing more beautiful than the other.
What do you call a group of roses? A bunch? A pride? A cluster? A flock of roses?
Whatever the correct term is, it’s an honour and a joy to have them growing like this in the garden.