Inspired by the soft fragrance of roses. The garden I grew up in had a climbing Cecile Brunner rose that twined itself up the face of our home, its canes arching up and over the hand rail to engulf the verandah. There was also Mr. Lincoln and Papa Meilland which in my mind was always pronounced “Mayo”, conjuring up sandwiches with my favourite brand of mayonnaise. Roses tint memories I have, and many of people I love have a rose story or memory too, sometimes they overlap with my own. Proposals, birthdays, life decisions. Their perfume can bring back distant feelings of birthdays, of painting rose petals in egg white and dusting them in sugar for cakes - yes you can eat them! A rose filled with spring rain, heavy headed. As a florist, thorns puncturing fingertips, catching sleeves. The sharp side to all that softness. The rose finds its way to balance.