I promised you a rose garden.

Some of my fondest, earliest memories are playing in my grandpa's rose garden; the only rose garden in a small mining town in Scotland. I have a photo of me when I'm about two years old, with a big blowsy bloom grasped in my little hands and my face buried in the fragrant petals. I still remember the shock when I discovered that earwigs like to live in there. The roses were pruned, preened and pampered to perfection by large hands stained black with coal dust. "You have to wash your hands grandpa," I would say but the dirt was a permanent tattoo in the cracks of his skin from years of dangerous, hard work.

My grandpa was good at finding jobs for me in the garden to keep me out of mischief. One those jobs was to collect the fallen petals that lay like pieces of sweety coloured silk on the paths. He would have loved the rose gardens at Wisley, the displays are stunning. One of my favourites was a russet coloured, beautifully scented variety called Hot Chocolate. (Seen on the right, third photo from the top). I was drawn to the unusual colour as soon as I saw it and was pleasantly surprised by the heady scent. I was delighted to find it for sale in the shop (they have a huge variety or roses for sale) so Rosa Hot Chocolate came home with me.

They Came from the Bog

Veins pulsing with blood 

Under neon alien skin,

The B movie future 

Invasion begins.

Lured by the acid odour 

Of decaying prey within;

A tasty treat for

A fly that whizzes in.

Not realising 

The dish of the day

Will be him.