(c) Nin Harris 2011. All Rights Reserved.
She sleeps within a thicket of roses, but would laugh at you had you pointed out similarities to various fairytale types. She would gesture at her camping stove, the tarp over her head and her sturdy gardening gloves. She would ask you to stop gawking while handing you a trowel, or rake. You would be enlisted to help the roses grow, to aid in their dreaming. As they should. As they would.
The growth of this woman’s army is commensurate with the spread of the sea of roses, with petals as red as blood, as deep as pinot noir or as rich as the cream from Orkney cows. There is no Sleeping Beauty within this thicket of roses. There is just an army of people, like yourself, who came here out of curiosity but who ended up giving their time, laying to waste their own schemes.