i never promised you a rose garden
by uzwi
Seeing all these roses in one place is first overpowering then depressing. It’s a rose zoo. Crammed into the invisible cage of the planting, they want their space but at the same time seem to lean up against one another for comfort. And the names they give them. The most popular buy is a white rambler called A Shropshire Lad; his consort, Shropshire Lass, gets less trade. “Look, this one’s new for this year! Look, ‘Ancient Mariner’!” There’s more than one ancient in here this afternoon. “This is solid!” –patting a box hedge, admiring and patronising at the same time, congratulating a shrub for being grown by the same culture that grew him– “It’s been up a few years!” Nevertheless, dark clouds are gathering here at the David Austen home for old gardeners.
the m john harrison blog 
And how many of the roses were scented?
By the way, your post arrived with an ad for Gaviscon, offering dual relief at bedtime. Perhaps your old gardeners would welcome a bottle or ten?
And so I check in once more at the hotel. Life is short and reading is forward motion – why then do I read Egnaro, The Incalling and others on a loop? How is it that they reveal more and less with each reading?
Apologies for the stray (i) something my mind for some curious reason has always imposed on the title.
You’ll be thinking of that well-known folk song, Egnario 🙂
Actually “A Shropshire Lad (or Lass)” is interesting, as Shropshire is (in Houseman) “The land of lost content”. By which he meant content in the sense of satisfaction or happiness. But if we consider the other meaning of content — the one you get when you put the emphasis on the first syllable — it really goes places. Names with no content — no resonance, no shadings, no associations, pure arbitrary signs, an English Hello Kitty.
M. John Harrison, you rock!