| Dedicated to the Queen of the world. Princess Di. Now been Killed...
It was a hot summers day in Tallamando.
The olde grey stone table, covered in a variety colours of moss, announced it had just turned midday, according to the sundial it had supported for many a year.
Around the sundial was a neatly cut lawn, with a well-maintained box hedge, as a backdrop around the garden. Surrounding the garden were the most beautiful roses, of every kind and colour, bees and butterflies went hither and thither, from flower to flower, collecting the most delightful nectar, birds were winging in the sunny sky, occasionally landing on the sundial, being the centre piece of the garden.
The garden was that of an olde-thatched cottage, over grown with ivy, where a little old man and lady resided.
Beyond the garden were large meadows, with undulating tundra. In the distance was a small wooded area, a lake where ducks were resting their heads, sleeping in the summer sun, Oak, birch willow, and beach trees were standing proud, sporadically across the landscape. In the distance church bells could be heard, informing that a young couple were betrothed.
Roses have a language of their own, they spent all day talking, about their favourite bee, or how nice the new fertiliser felt, complimenting each other, on how wonderful they looked, they would often joke and sing, yet they always wondered why a rose was dug up and taken away each week.
One day the rambling roses looked into a window of the cottage. Word quickly spread around the garden, that the rose, to be dug was the chosen rose, ‘twas the rose of the week.
The roses were jealous, for each rose thought it should be rose of the week. Bickering broke out amongst them. Each week when a rose was chosen, the backbiting was immense. It got so bad that without noticing it they were starting to get black spot, and lose Pettal's through stress.
But one pure white rose, which was ridiculed the most, just serenely stood there, never retorting, a single unkind word. The bees and butterflies, stopped coming to the garden, as the nectar tasted foul, except that of the white rose.
The little old man and woman could not understand what had happened to their beautiful garden. Rose after rose got excited, as it was dug up, only to find itself to be thrown on the compost heap.
A yellow rose that was behind, the white rose, tried tormenting the white rose, telling it how awful it was, and never did belong, saying that it will be the next rose of the week. The yellow rose was dug up, it was laughing at the white rose, telling it that it had said it was going to be rose of the week. Then it was slung on the compost heap, with all the others.
The next morning it was misty, the old couple were sad, that their garden was now bereft of any flowers so early in the year, as the old couple were about to walk back indoors, the sun shone on a gap in the mist, the couple walked over to it, and were shocked, as to how they could have missed such a perfect flower, the carefully dug it up, smiling, and put it in a place of honour, in the cottage.
That night, something very rare happened, for Rosé merry, the fairy godmother of roses came to visit the white rose, and granted it immortality.
Visitors would visit the old couple, never failing to ask about the most wonderful fragrance, they had ever smelt.
The old couple just showed them the rose that never seemed to show any sign of wilting.
The next spring came; the ivy on the cottage was now replaced by white roses, so was the garden. |
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