Saturday
In the flower stakes Hawthorn has gone to brown and Elder is taking up residence, plants and trees jostle among each other – Alder and Hemlock at the hatch and the wall leading the way west, giant stone nestles in the bracken and long grass gulleys carved by walkers canine and human. Some debris from the river fished out by yesterday’s FotG crew – left as offering, so neat surely a taker will claim it, or it may end up in the river again. Tyre track roundabout and the newly unclogged cage, keeping the water flowing and helping things out with the Bride as well that becomes clogged and causes flooding, figwort with its square stem and fisty bud, goose grass wooing the hawthorn still in swathes, a snail takes advantage of the open road on the figwort superhighway, cuckoo spit in abundance, sheep’s bit scabious making pompoms to the hawkweed, sun down in the North East, lighting the broom from behind, those perfect pods showing its kin with the gorse (and pea) The stone fire place has been dismantled, I look around for the rocks but they must be in the undergrowth, Elders showing their spots about the Glen now, daisies closing up pinkly for the night, harts tongue licking the air
Sunday
