In an overgrown garden stands a vibrant and proud remnant of the past. He exists in the present but his strong roots trail deep down to all his yesterdays.

The season has shifted and soon the dark winter will come, but for now the inevitable is denied. With a straightened stem and blooming head he stares defiant in the face of his fate. It will not be long before he joins the others; before his prettiest parts loosen and retire to the damp bed below where their colour will drain before shrivelling to a pulp and returning to mingle with the earth. He knows his destiny, every year he suffers the same life-sapping process but this year is different. A different weakness has arrived, a dismal foreboding that makes each moment feel like forever.

From his prime position he is able to survey the entire grounds in all their chaos. To his right, the barely visible driveway that once boasted an abundance of expensive black gravel lined with jagged, chunky flints whose jet black guts glistened in the sunlight, now held only the slightest definition. The driveway, leading to the black wrought iron gates mottled with rust which separated the property from the bumpy lane, was blanketed in the natural debris of six lonely years punctuated by stiff weeds growing up and up; aiming for the heavens.

To his left, he could only just spy quick glimpses of the weathered bricks laid by the rough hands of the gentlest man as the breeze ushered the high grasses back and forth. The circular creation was once a triumph; an achievement the man was proud of and which he immediately filled with rich earth and flowers of many colours and kinds. Beyond this, he remembered, was a short cobbled path that declined gradually to the deep pond where, once upon a happy time, fish swam and children dared each other to cross the bridge. If he could see above the tips of the blades and across to the back of the garden, he would see that the pond was no longer as he remembered. The thick trunk of the toppled tree still lay faithfully across the diameter of the boggy pond, forming a slippery bridge of rotting bark that lay surrounded by lengthy reeds.

Behind his bed stands the decrepit shed whose timber, now greyed from the harsh elements, is cracked, swollen and riddled with insects. Its lock has long since succumbed to corrosion; releasing the door to the rhythmic mercy of the wind. Many creatures have made it their home through the years despite the shattered window and the banging, creaking of the swinging door. Nests have come and gone, many a web has coated the walls and winter months snoozed through where once the rough hands of the gentlest man tinkered with the tools of his retirement.
Directly ahead, stands the big house in all its glorious dishevelment. Sadly, he can only see the upper floor if he summons all the strength he can muster to tilt his heavy head back to gaze up. The wild grass has grown so high that the house seems smaller. Nature has invaded wherever it can extend itself to become the dominant master of this manor. The roof remains in a decent state save for the odd few tiles that have crashed to the pathway during the last storm. The pebbledash that coated the top half of the house, once painted in a fresh but soft cream, was now scuffed and chipped; eroded by weather and struck by the excrement of many a passing bird. The rotting window frames, that once housed panes of perfect glass now blemished with cracks and chips, or smashed entirely.

He remembered that during the happy summers, when the blue skies stretched over the acres and above the trees, when the neat garden was loved by all who entered it, the uplifting laughter of children would echo as they splashed in the shimmering water of the paddling pool or swung on their swing, carefree and innocent, with the floral scented breeze in their hair.
These were the times when the woman would come. As soon as his first bud emerged, she came intuitively, sensing its arrival.  Her delicate fingers would caress the green tightness that would soon be ready to burst from its confines into vibrant colour. With her kind eyes she would gaze with adoration at him; celebrating his return into her family’s sanctuary, and smile with patient anticipation at the prospect of how beautiful he would become. He was her pride and joy; her most established and faithful friend who always returned to grace her garden.  Of course, he was always delighted to see her. When the season set in he would look for her and wait to be discovered. He never had to wait long. Sometimes, when she returned home from work in the late afternoon smartly dressed in a skirt-suit and blouse, she would bypass the front door to her home, kick off her black high-heels and walk slowly, with dainty steps around the garden, oozing an air of peace and contentment; appreciating the life she had nurtured. But the best times were when she dedicated herself to tending her babies for it was then that she would speak softly, or transmit the melodic hum of a nursery rhyme as if soothing a child.
When it was his turn he would listen attentively to her satin voice as it trailed seamlessly from one subject to another. She thought out loud, but did so at barely a whisper. She confided in him; speaking of her family, her plans, her loves, and loses. She asked him questions that he could not answer, although sometimes she paused as if expecting some impossible response. She would never know that he felt her tenderness or that he sometimes saw her tears. She would never know that he had loved her.
The rose bloomed and watched his family every summer. He felt at home; secure and delighted to belong to the love created within the place he heard named as Mill Lodge. He observed with willingness the playful dogs, crawling babies turn into walking babies, the toddlers turn into awkward children with missing teeth and scraped knees, and the melancholic teenagers evolve into young women. He saw progression all around him in the healthy growth of his own kind and in that of the humans.
One summer the whistling man did not come into the garden and the buds of the rose were not noticed at all. The woman came sometimes but she did not stroll around the garden to admire the life there.  She just stood rigid on the patio with arms folded tight to her chest. Her vacant eyes, laced with teardrops, stared blankly at the alien landscape before her. The rose was at first mildly disgruntled; then his resentment at being so harshly neglected turned to desperation. One September evening, as the sun made its descent he cried out in utter despair ‘Why does she not come? Does she not love us anymore? I need to be tended to!’

At hearing his outrage the entire garden mumbled and grumbled in agreement. For them, the summer had been lonely. No children came to swing on the swing or chase each other with the hose, no tea and biscuits were served in the delicate cups and saucers with the golden trim. The dogs came but they did not frolic; they made their mess and padded mournfully away. The garden changed forever that year; suffocated by silence for no laughter could be heard. An invisible cloud positioned its static self above the house and refused to depart; bearing down on the soul of the fragile woman and casting a shadow of grief that penetrated an eerie chill through every part of what existed there.

Autumn crept in sneakily tarnishing the garden with his rustic tones of mild yellow, muddy brown and burnt orange. Leaves whipped past the rose to land elsewhere in the grounds but others fell on him and around him, gathering helplessly in his bed.

Eventually the woman came to him and brutally snipped his last, almost-dead-head clean off. He yearned to hear her voice but she gave him no words just a blank expression that spoke silent volumes, for she had aged and withered in her grief; seeming smaller, slimmer and more fragile than he had remembered. The rose was mortified when the woman took his severed head and tossed to the back of the bed. She had shunned him, neglected him – stopped loving him, and simply turned her back, with a bowed head and heavy heart, she walked away. The rose knew well that the time had come for him to enter his slumberous months. He would now drown deep in dormant sleep until the time came when he would once again sprout shoots, gain strength and height, bear bulbous buds and flourish in the sunlight. Declaring a humble farewell to the rest of the garden and directing a woeful glance to the house where the woman lived, he slipped away; sadly, into his rightful dormancy.
When the next spring arrived the rose emerged a little late from his cyclic slumber to the gaggle and booming of an irate chorus. It took him a while to become fully aware of the activity around him. The stoic oak, who resided at the far left of the garden near to where the teddy bear’s picnics were always held, appeared to be chairing a meeting of some sort. The rose strained to listen. The garden fell silent.
‘Good. Now that everyone is with us I shall begin. As most of you have all heard by now, thanks to the daffodil’s first-hand account of events which occurred before most of you arrived back, it appears that we have been abandoned. The daffodil saw many boxes and items of furniture taken from the house and put into a large vehicle and no one has seen the woman since. As you will observe the garden furniture has also been removed.’
The rose froze in shock while the voices of those around him started up again.
‘ORRRDDERRRR, I say!’ bellowed the oak.
The garden resumed its attentive silence.
‘My friends, this is the state of affairs: yes, the woman has left and yes, some of you will suffer without her care more than others but we remain here – this is our garden, our home, and we must continue on. Surely, another person will come to the house to live in it, to tend us and perhaps the new humans may even have children! Imagine that! So leaves and heads up one and all! Keep the faith!’

An empty cheer rose up from the crowd. They were not consoled but felt it polite to respond to the oak’s good intentions. At first the growing life became depressed, they so longed for the graceful women, the whistling man and the happy children but when they could not resist their natural urges anymore; succumbing to their fated growth, they disarmed each other with their extraordinary displays of rich colours and luxurious scents. And so the garden befell a lonely yet hopeful season.

The rose for one hoped every day that the woman would return. He kept his deep seated feelings of abandonment to himself and withdrew from most interactions with his own kind; he took to mumbling to himself, gazing desperately at the big empty house, and when the dusk came to disguise him in its darkened veil, he set his teardrops free.

The springs and summers came and passed in the same vein; lonely months battled on. The garden grew and became uglier and uglier; wild, with no trace of humanity to distinguish it. The rose never recovered from his loss. Each year, when he returned reluctantly from dormancy, the sight he beheld became more grotesque for there was no order, no peaceful design, no refinement – just the weeds and grasses which grew with such ferocity; intimidating, crass and towering above him.

One particular year, four wretched years since the woman left and took the love from the garden, the rose was ready to admit defeat. He no longer wanted to feel his pains and as the final red petals fell from his head he knew he would not return again; weaker this year, neglected and dying.

On an nippy late September afternoon the garden was startled from the brink of its autumnal retreat to the sound of an engine, slammed car doors and excited voices. As they moved around the property, first into the house, around the side and then, only slightly into the garden for, the shrubs, trees and flowers all held their breath; channeling all the life that was left in them to hear.
A woman’s voice was heard in the distance near to the south side of the house.
‘…..take it all out. I want it all out. Strip it back and we’ll start from scratch with it, yes? How can I do anything with this as it is? It would be impossible!’
‘Right you are’ came a pompous sounding tone, ‘and what would you like me to arrange for the pond? And I presume you require that the garage, shed, playhouse and pet gravestones be removed also? We’d best not venture into that jungle, it may be unsafe.’
‘Get rid of it all. Just get the contractors arranged OK? We’ll have the demolition guys in first to tear this shell down in case any of the tree roots make the structure unstable, then we’ll tackle the garden before the re-build starts.’
‘Yes Madam, excellent plan!’ Exclaimed the grovelling man.
Then the voices vacated and the garden cried out; sobbing in waves of despair.

That night the wind banged the shed door harder and louder than ever before, the windows – those lucky enough to still hold remnants of their panes – released them, crying them to the ground while all about the garden the haunting wails of those preparing for death were heard. The rose understood that his roots would be ripped from the earth, severed from their damp dark home and cast aside to perish, along with those of his friends but he did not cry along with them. He turned inward to his dormant domain to avoid the imminent destruction of all he has ever known and loved, and with that he slipped from life.

A few days later, the woman returned in heavy boots and thick gloves with a dog at her heel. Only the trees – still awake and twitching their branches in silent dread – could see her movements as she started from the French doors of the house and stepped with apprehension into the wilderness of the garden, using her arms to part a way through and fight off the vicious brambles. The new woman pushed through with determination for some minutes then halted; surprised by the brick formation before her. Although weeds and grasses grew in and all around it the circular base was only just visible through erratic mossy gatherings. Stepping onto the base she parted back the greenery to find a perfectly round and lovingly crafted man-made flowerbed standing roughly 2 feet tall and, she guessed, 3 metre in diameter. How original, she thought. The stalks and blades were permitted to spring back as she released them and moved on. The dog, faithful at her side, pawed with caution before taking his steps.

Eventually the woman arrived at the very back of the right side of the garden. She entered a woodland area, so shrouded from light that only tiny speckles of sky were visible through the canopy orange leaved branches of the ancient trees. She crouched down, breathing in the woody dampness of her tranquil surrounding with her back against the great oak who    sighed gently at the long awaited touch of a human. The dog snuffled about the area, led by his moist black nose to two small grey slabs, off-balance and wonky in the earth. He barked and gained his owner’s attention, who rising to investigate, softened her expression. These must be the pet graves the agent was talking about, and the names are engraved, she thought. ‘Joe, and Babs’ she whispered to herself. The perky jack Russell shuffled about then positioned himself to a sit in front of the headstones, defiantly. The woman smiled, ‘Come on boy, let’s see what else we can find!’

The dog did not move until his owner had ventured along the perimeter, passed the sloped rockery guarded by the strange little stone man with yellow moss on his brow and come to a standstill at the reed-ridden pond. A vile smell caused by abundant algae and rotting wood of the tree-bridge, rose violently in her nostrils. She moved cautiously around the edge of the pond, parting greenery in preparation for each squelching step. She tracked the garden’s perimeter once again, pushing and heaving as she went. She arrived at the decaying playhouse complete with a little plastic table and chairs set of a faded red, then the shed. She peeped through the smashed window to find nothing but branches and foliage then as she made her way beyond it, treading down brambles and moving aside weeds taker than herself, her arm struck something solid as it motioned to part the foliage. Her gloved hands found the object and traced its shape up and over her head; then moving down she felt a cold chain that led to a wooden seat. She realised what it was: a child’s swing! She felt her way around the frame, moved to the other side of it and realised that she had fallen in love with the garden.

The great oak had watched her every move with a keen and suspicious eye. At first he had not understood the purpose of her visit for she was alone with no men to dig up the garden but once she had rested against his barked and aged trunk, and he had watched her hard irritated expression soften at the sight of the dogs resting place, he saw a tranquillity wash over her; a sad but light peacefulness that allowed her to begin to feel the spirit of the garden.
It was not long before the woman had reached the back of the garage; its walls, constructed by the rough hands of the gentlest man were beautifully snaked in ivy. She extended her gloved hand to the wall, sweeping it along, feeling each veiny extension stuck to its surface as if building up a protective layer to hold it fast and keep it from harm. She hummed a tune she did not know; low, and soft, drifting off into a daydream and then, silenced and grounded, she saw it.