Everything in the garden reminds me of Jenny. Her roses peep above the parapets of frost-rimed Box hedging, gilt outlines on the geometry I imposed. The roses are currently bare but the starkness appeals, and by some mad chance the gaps in the hedging almost work. I can see all the way to the Rockery at the end, and through to Jenny’s slope on one side and the fruit trees on the other. She was entirely right when she called me a fad gardener. It was one of those things that began as endearment, as gentle mockery, but over time became a sarcastic barb in the way things do if you let them.
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