In this suburb
in the temperate south,
people grow roses.
I go for a walk
in mingled sun and rain
and stop to look,
and pause to smell.
Some are full and blowsy,
others tiny, many-petalled.
The one with the deepest scent
is creamy in the centre,
crimson round the rim.
It's an old suburb
of small stone houses,
and these are old roses
thriving still.
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