It is June, 1995, and Husband and I are on a poignant journey from a gravesite in France to a gravesite in Holland.

We have just spent a few days around Brettville sur Laiz where Tom is buried, and now we are driving up the coast of France to Njimagen, to visit the military cemetery where Gordon lies.

As we drive through Picardy Husband and I sing softly, the refrain to 'Roses of Picardy' and think of my father, another soldier from the First World War. We don't remember the verse, but we are old enough that the refrain is familiar to us.

Roses are shining in Picardy
In the hush of the silver dew
Roses are flowering in Picardy
But there's never a rose like you
And the roses will die with the summer time
And our roads may be far apart
But there's one rose that dies not in Picardy
'Tis the rose that I keep in my heart

I think nostalgically of that day as I deadhead the roses in the garden. This cool spring has been so kind to them, and they have flourished beyond belief.

This evening the sky gently reflects the colours of the garden, and it is all tenderness and contentment.




Slowly it fades, - the flowers shine dimly in the dusk and I go into the house to collect the little dog for his evening walk and wait for the full moon to rise. A few days ago it was pale and porcelain in the fading light. Tonight it will be dark when it rises and it will flood the valley like a splendid lantern.

Ever grateful to be surrounded with such loveliness.....