Friday I return – it feels good to take the downward Path from Sunview East and enter The Glen, a homecoming. The grass is high now under the Hawthorn and Birch the Oaks and the little plantation of trees set this spring. I go to where the Gorse was popping this time last year and I know before I get there that the heads are brown after flowering throughout the winter months, now spreading greenly low among the clover instead. The ribwort plaintain bob their summer heads. I look across the bridges to the Hawthorn, last time I saw it a dandy, that moment now over it merges back into the greens. As I draw nearer I see the petals transformed to pink confetti now strewn about the foot of the empty pedestal.
I follow the path along ropey stone wall, in its borders the hogweed has unfurled and is hosting bees, further upstream the witches’ grove is abloom with Hemlock and Cow parsley, dunking their heads into the clear waters of the Glen. Nearby a giant burdock leaf makes its offerings of sycamore litter. Arriving at the Fleishmann place The Lime tree instructs me to make the choice of right or left ,each opening with its own invitation. I take as more often than not the left path, towards the gate posts and on the way I admire the tall stems of hogweeds, their umbel heads making horizontal music with the other layers of undergrowth and tumbling brickwork. An elder has also settled here and this space is at its most enchanting now the green carpet is being strewn across the old foundations and flowers appear in the dappled light.
Later, past the bridges and back at the snake I pass the upended Ivy and see a warp of nettles has pushed its way up through its tangled weft, entwined vigorous new growth and the bones of old; once again I hear the music of the Glen. On the other side of the river the bracken and foxgloves mirror and outshine the man-made metal of the council fencing
Up on the ridge I see the Rosebay willow herb is forming its flowers, not yet open, an occasional foxglove throwing down the gauntlet for the summer flourish that is about to begin. Cuckoo spit is liberally scattered about the heads, buds and bugs might open in unsion, I imagine a purple fanfare for the emergence of the froghopper beetle.
I cant resist putting elongated self in the picture, cast by the rays of the dying midsummer sun over tractor tracks in the council dumping ground. The sycamore leaves rake flight in the light.