A rose hedge

These aren't the wild roses but those which have survived in the gardens of the old farm cottages after they were pulled down over 50 years ago.  I try to imagine who lived there and here are a few verses from Jan Millward's poem The Old Farmer:

He never takes his cap off,
it seems welded to his head.
The cowman reckons he wears it
even when he goes to bed.

He wears the same old jacket
in snow and summer's sun.
His pockets are full of cough sweets 
and a cartridge for his gun.

He wears faded moleskin trousers
with string around the waist.
He keeps a penknife and some matches
and a pound note just in case.

And his ancient moss green jumper
that's been darned up by his wife,
is the one he got at market
and he's kept it all his life.