My dad liked roses

 My dad liked roses

He saved  his money

To buy books about them.

He grafted new roses on to cuttings

On to wild rose stems.

He liked scented roses

Look here, he said.

This one's called Peace.

People came from neighbouring villages

And the nearby town

To ask my dad about roses.

He was glad to help.

And gave his knowledge

And his cuttings with a grin.

In the winter we made

Rag rugs to lay on the hearth.

My mum drew patterns on the hessian

And we filled them in with rags of the right colour.

It took longer than you’d think.

And my dad made roses 

out of crepe paper.

His favourites were the tea roses

Small and contained and mostly pink

Although yellow ones, too.

White ones not so often because

They were a bit boring (I thought to myself).

My dad had epilepsy and arthritis and bronchitis

And before that, TB.

At 12, he had been sent away to either live or die.

He lived of course, and later, he marvelled and

Was proud that every day without fail, he could go to work.

He wasn't supposed to make it beyond 30

But the doctors got it wrong.

He laughed

And on Sundays,

he sang around the. house.

When Dad retired, he went back into the garden

Stayed there from dawn till dusk

Growing cabbages and potatoes

Humming a little tune

And tending

To his flowers.

When I went to visit

He would go to the shed and pull down a cabbage

Or wrap up some beans

Or whatever there was

For me to take home.

.

In summer, when the roses bloomed

between the rockery and the greenhouse

I would walk up there by the big privet hedge

And bend down to breathe in the scent of the soft floppy petals

round the heart of

Peace.